


Heaven Forbid

by Chunky_Squirrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chunky_Squirrel/pseuds/Chunky_Squirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal was right. And she was also very wrong. Arthur is at his limit and Eames can only watch. Cobb's children want their father back, and inception is the key to waking him up, but it doesn't guarentee he will choose to stop dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Inception Big Bang](http://inception-bang.livejournal.com/)  
> Link to the fabulous art of [here](http://kymericl.livejournal.com/34430.html#cutid1)

When James was three, his mother had fallen from a hotel room rising high above the city streets. It had been a sad time, or at least, that was how he remembered it. His father had mourned her death, but still, he didn’t stay. His sister, Philippa, had told him their father was going to be away on business for a while. In retrospect, James supposed Philippa had been just as confused as he was, but at the time, he accepted her word as truth, without question, simply because she was his big sister, and she knew everything. 

A year later, after he turned four, his father had returned home. He remembered how happy he was to see him. He had received toys from all around the world, and sometimes he had received brief phone calls, but nothing had made him happier when he turned around and saw his father standing eagerly on the porch, arms outstretched. While he still hadn’t understood why his mother was gone, he hadn’t been as lonely anymore. 

By the time James was six, his father had started working again, leaving for stretches of time, but had always returned before a month had passed. His father had explained to him and Philippa that it was important he go back to work. Philippa had asked him the important questions such as, “why?” Their father told them he needed to change things for the better, fulfill the wish their mother had not been able to do. Philippa had reluctantly nodded her head, squinting at their father like she did when she had a particularly difficult problem on her homework. James had been too young to care about such things, so long as his father continued to come back, everything was okay. 

In the third grade, James had found himself easily distracted in class. The teachers had called his father often. Sometimes he would be there to attend the meetings, but many other times, he wasn’t there. James had hated the way the teachers talked over his head like he couldn’t understand them. He had hated how they blamed his father for any conceived misbehavior. He had tried to tell them that it wasn’t his father’s fault, that it was their fault for being so boring. Soon after he had said that, visits to the school’s counselor became routine. She had seemed nice enough, but James was unimpressed. He had made sure to answer her questions exactly how he thought she wanted. By the end of the school year, the counselor had no reason to believe there was anything wrong. 

It was not until the summer break after third grade. His Uncle Arthur was visiting. James adored his uncle. If anybody could understand his school dilemma, it was Uncle Arthur. James had told him what had happened during school and how stupid his teachers were for being boring and for blaming his father. Unlike all the other adults, his father included, Uncle Arthur hadn’t quietly asked him about what he was feeling and why. Instead, he had asked if James would like to read a book. It had been a far more favorable answer than anybody else, and James had eagerly agreed. To his surprise, Uncle Arthur handed James a book from his bag. James had stared at the cover and had decided the picture of the bloody sword was much cooler than the silly books about children doing stupid things like eating worms (not that he hadn’t explored the world of digging for worms, but that was for science, and making Philippa scream). He had carefully opened the book and began reading. When he had finished, Uncle Arthur had proceeded to ask him lots of other questions about math figures and his writing. By the time they had finished, Uncle Arthur had been smiling, telling him he was a good student and he shouldn’t listen to what other people say about him. 

A month before fourth grade, James had to meet with the school’s counselor again. This time, his father had accompanied him and he had seemed excited. James had sat quietly, listening to his father explain that James was actually very smart, and he needed to be in a different class. The counselor had merely nodded along, smiling without smiling, and had told him James would need to take some tests. James had rolled his eyes when he heard that, but if taking the tests meant he didn’t have to be bored anymore, he would do whatever they wanted. 

It turned out that James had done something right, because he hadn’t begun the fourth grade a month later. Instead, he started the seventh grade. Philippa had found it to be the most annoying situation possible. James had quickly learned he was cramping her style, and it was important he stay away from her. It had made him a little bit lonely, but he hadn’t let it bother him. The work had been much more difficult than before, and James had no time to focus on anything else. He had become the classmate that nobody hated, but nobody particularly liked either. He had been known only as that really smart kid, and never as anything else. But he had still been fine with it, only because his father had always taken time to sit down with him and help him with his homework. 

On James’ twelfth birthday, he had been too busy to celebrate like any other twelve year old. He had an essay to complete, and he had been struggling with the algebra he was learning. Besides, he had nobody to celebrate it with. His sister had been kind enough to bake him some overcooked cupcakes, but she too had the same work to finish. They had tried to help each other as best they could because their father had been away on a job. In the evening, he had received a phone call from his father, wishing him a happy birthday. Something had seemed strange about his father’s voice, but James had been too distracted to focus on it. 

As always, his father had continued to return home. But before, when his father would make time to sit with James and Philippa, it now had become increasingly rare. It had been his junior year, and James had begun to see Uncle Arthur more frequently and his father less so. But still, James had not been too concerned. He had known how he became when he was caught up in work, so it had only made sense that his father would be the same way. Uncle Arthur had not quite smiled when he heard that and had responded by telling James that his father loved him and his sister very much. James had just shrugged and told his uncle that much was obvious. He hadn’t the time to waste on common knowledge. He had to study for the PSAT.

In the last several months of his senior year, James’ father never came home. Uncle Arthur had become his legal guardian, and he had told James and Philippa that he would explain things when they graduated. Philippa had narrowed her eyes and attacked Uncle Arthur with questions. It had been easier for James to imagine his father showing up the day of graduation than to stay and hear the answers. On the day of graduation, only Uncle Arthur was present. They had skipped the usual celebrations after the ceremony, and returned to the much emptier feeling house. After they had changed into their pajamas, Uncle Arthur called them into their father’s study and pulled out a silver case. Uncle Arthur called it a PASIV device.

When James was fifteen, he dreamed for the very first time.


	2. Chapter 1

“Care if I ask what that was about?”

Arthur was careful to keep his expression neutral, though he couldn’t help the slight disapproval from slipping into his voice. He snapped the PASIV device shut and waited for an answer. Dom Cobb had the decency to look sheepish, but offered nothing but a weak smile. Indulging in his less professional side, Arthur rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, checking on their mark one last time before following Cobb out of the meeting room. 

Their mark, David Stein, was a young, up and coming star of a financial firm. He was being considered for an executive position, but before he would be offered the job, the board wanted to confirm whether or not the rumors surrounding him were true. Accusations floated between his co-workers claiming Stein had been embezzling money, and that was the real reason he was so successful. So, to know for sure, the firm hired Cobb to extract all the secrets of Stein’s success. 

It was a typical job, from a typical mark, for a typical client. By all rights, nothing should have gone wrong. Stein wasn’t militarized, and putting him under had been easily arranged by the firm. It was so typical, that it was just Arthur and Cobb. And at first, everything in the dream had been going according to plan; Arthur had been keeping an eye on the projections while Cobb approached Stein as one of the members of the board. But then, Arthur had spotted Mal. Nothing went smoothly when she was around in a dream. She had walked past Arthur, smiling beautifully over her shoulder as she approached Cobb and Stein. He hadn’t heard what she was saying, but it had made Stein’s subconscious paranoid. All the projections had ceased their movements and stared blankly towards Arthur. 

Swearing under his breath, Arthur had calmly stood from his seat in the hotel’s lobby and walked towards the stairs leading to another floor. He had heard something made of glass break, and he knew they were compromised. Making it to the meeting room, which was serving as their stronghold just in case the projections turned on them, Arthur had waited to hear Cobb confirm he was going to kick himself out of the dream, but instead, all he had been able to confirm was that Cobb was insane, and just this side of masochistic. Cobb had stormed into the room right behind Arthur, Stein following behind him.

“Mister Stein, what is happening to you is normal,” Cobb had calmly explained. “In this dream, your competitors want to know the secret to your success and are breaking into your mind to find them.”

Arthur had to bite back a scathing diatribe when he had figured out what Cobb was trying to do. 

“I’m here to keep that from happening. I’m Mister Charles, and I’m the head of your security here,” Cobb had continued as if he was expecting this to happen. “I need you to trust me, and I’ll keep your mind safe.”

As foolish as the gambit had been, Arthur hadn’t been able to deny Cobb’s skill. After mentioning the word, “safe,” Arthur had known that the information would be stored in the small safe tucked in the back of the meeting room. With a quick nod to Cobb, Arthur had quietly approached the safe hiding behind a painting. Arthur had frowned when he input the code; the one Cobb had told him about earlier. But Arthur had known he didn’t have much time. He had stiffly pulled the papers out of the safe and glanced at each page. When he had turned around to tell Cobb they were good, Mal’s face had greeted him instead, right before she had stabbed him with a ballpoint pen. Arthur stared after her blankly as he felt the blood slowly drip down his chest. 

“Did Mister Charles tell you that his real name is Dom, and he is the one stealing from your mind?” Mal had asked Stein as she sashayed towards Cobb. 

Arthur had wanted to scream at Cobb to just end the dream, but before he had been able to get any words out, the door to the room had come crashing down, a flood of violent projections armed with pens and various other office supplies were running straight for Arthur. He had felt the projections stab, pull, and snap his body in a chaotic frenzy. The last sight he had seen was Cobb staring at him, horrified, with Mal draped against his body, a pale hand caressing his cheek. 

It wasn’t often that Arthur jerked out of a dream, but that was exactly what he had done when he opened his eyes. He had swallowed the bile in his mouth with a grimace and waited for Cobb to wake up from the dream. After an eternal three seconds had passed, Cobb had practically leapt from his seat, looking around in a panic. Arthur had just frowned and wound up the lines in silence. Finally, Arthur just had to ask.

“Care if I ask what that was about?”

The lack of an answer wasn’t a surprise. Arthur honestly wasn’t expecting one. Cobb never gave him a straight answer to any of Arthur’s questions regarding Mal and sabotaged jobs. They continued to happen and Arthur didn’t know what to do about any of it. All he ended up doing each and every time was following Cobb to the next job, and trying to make sure they made it out alive. It was his duty to keep Cobb on track and not get lost in his own mind. Most times, Arthur felt like he was failing. 

“So, what did you find, Mister Cobb?” the CEO asked.

Snapping back to attention, Arthur immediately stepped forward just enough so that he was standing half a step behind Cobb. 

“Mister Stein does not, nor has he ever, embezzled money from this firm,” Arthur replied. 

The CEO nodded his head once with the most charming, insincere smile. Arthur maintained his reserve and shook his hand. He made sure the CEO had their account numbers, and that the money would be wired no later than six o’clock. The man’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second at Arthur’s tone of voice. Arthur smiled, though he supposed it was probably closer to a threat than a smile. But then, Arthur honestly didn’t care how the CEO took it. It wasn’t his concern. 

“Shouldn’t you be a little more polite to the client?” Cobb asked when they left the building and walked towards the car. 

“Shouldn’t you be a little more polite to the dreamer?” Arthur retorted before he could measure his words. 

“You’re right.”

Arthur suppressed a sigh. He supposed that was as close to an apology as he was going to get for now, not that it really mattered to him anymore. Cobb would always eventually put out the words, “I’m sorry,” but as Mal continued to show up during their jobs, no matter what Cobb said about it, “I’m sorry,” had lost its meaning. 

“Let’s just get back to the hotel,” Arthur suggested in lieu of forcing Cobb to talk about what was happening. “The money should be transferred by then.”

Cobb visibly sagged in relief, causing Arthur to finally sigh aloud and drop his head against the roof of his car. When he looked up again, Cobb had a sort of fond half smile. Arthur hated that look. It made it much more difficult for him to stay angry and focused on the matter at hand. 

“Get in the damn car.”

Arthur muttered soft, half-hearted curses under his breath as he got into the car, Cobb holding his hands up in surrender. They didn’t talk during the drive back to the hotel, but there was nothing else to say. Cobb was lost in his head somewhere, leaving Arthur to focus on the vehicle in front of him. It was swerving in and out of lanes and was a suitable distraction from the thoughts threatening to break into a migraine. He needed to separate himself from Cobb for a while. From what little he was willing to examine of his own mind, Arthur knew he was losing sight of what he needed to be doing.

When they arrived at the hotel, Arthur handed the keys off to the valet, glancing at his surroundings. While he wasn’t expecting any trouble, he never took chances when it was a job involving Cobb. Trouble seemed to follow him, and Arthur learned the hard way to never underestimate that ability. He wanted to actually sleep tonight; not get shot. 

“Stay low, and try to get some rest,” Arthur ordered as they stepped into the elevator. “Check-out is at eleven, leave by nine-thirty.”

“I know the drill,” Cobb replied, but quickly held his hand up. “But it never hurts to hear it again.”

Satisfied with the answer, Arthur punched the button for their floor, and made sure his posture discouraged the middle-aged couple from trying to share the elevator. Cobb arched an eyebrow at him, but Arthur just ignored him. He didn’t feel like being around anybody else, even if it was for a short elevator ride. With the stress of the job finally wearing thin, plus his natural discomfort in elevators, Arthur was about ready to punch something. 

“Arthur.”

Arthur managed to not flinch at the sudden noise, but he could still feel his eye twitch. He frowned at the reaction, and practically scowled when he felt Cobb’s warm hand resting on his shoulder. 

“Arthur, take your own advice and get some rest,” Cobb said. 

Even though he knew it was a bad idea, Arthur didn’t brush Cobb’s hand off his shoulder. Instead, he turned towards him. Arthur mentally berated himself for not ignoring him, because when he made eye contact, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Cobb wore an openly concerned expression, rarely seen these days. If Arthur looked just a little bit closer, he would almost say there was something more than just simple concern for a co-worker or maybe a friend. But he had never been one to indulge in a self-serving fantasy.

“Of course,” Arthur replied.

He could see Cobb squinting at him, out of the corner of his eye, the one he used when he was scrutinizing a particularly difficult puzzle. Arthur shook his head and counted down the seconds until the elevator stopped on their floor. Cobb could squint until he went cross-eyed; Arthur was certain he wouldn’t figure out anything. Life wasn’t that fair.

The doors finally slid open, revealing an empty hallway. Arthur walked with Cobb to his room, only entering his own when he heard the door beep and click shut. When he entered the room, he shut the door and stared blankly at the empty space. The bed was neatly made, the covers folded down for the evening, while two chairs occupied the middle space, both angled towards the balcony. 

Rolling his shoulders and grunting at the snapping along his joints, Arthur dropped the PASIV device on one of the chairs as he walked towards the bed. He slipped out of his jacket and draped it over another chair before methodically unbuttoning his vest and loosening the cuffs of his shirt. Arthur grunted in frustration when the knot in his tie didn’t slide loose with his usual movements. Tugging a bit harder than was necessary, Arthur finally slipped the knot loose, whipping it off his neck. There was a crinkle in the material and Arthur glared at it. The wrinkled tie continued to mock him until he realized it was his own actions that caused it in the first place. Shaking his head, Arthur began unbuttoning his shirt, all the while frowning at how the number of buttons seemed to have multiplied since this morning. With his shirt finally removed, Arthur paused for a moment to stare down at his pants. He idly wondered if his pants were going to find new ways to defy him just as every other article of clothing had already done. 

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur mumbled.

For the most part, Arthur did manage to remove the rest of his clothing with minimal difficulty. One of the straps of his suspenders snapped loose and whacked him in the side of his head, and the zipper of his trousers seemed to be stuck. Other than that though, Arthur was able to make it to the shower. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered, but then, after today, Arthur could only think about how a long hot shower would help ease the tension that was slowly eating away at his control. Unfortunately, that very loss of control wouldn’t leave his mind alone. Even though he knew it was pointless to try, Arthur still tried to think about anything else. All he succeeded in doing was ruining a perfectly serviceable shower. 

While the hot water did feel good on his frayed nerves, Arthur knew any sense of peace would be impossible for the rest of the day. Shutting the water off, Arthur grabbed a nearby towel and stepped out of the shower. He dragged the towel roughly over his head, ruffling his hair harder than necessary. Huffing out a sigh, Arthur reluctantly dropped the towel from his head and wrapped it around his waist instead. 

The mirror hanging over the sink in the corner was covered by a thin film of steam, and as Arthur reached out to wipe it away, he noticed his reflection. Blurry as it was, Arthur could still make out his face, or at least, a version of his face. Staring back was a younger him, one who still had softer features not yet hardened by time. Arthur and his reflection stared at each other for a short eternity, both tired and frowning. 

“Not yet,” he declared before running his hand over the steam. With the mirror cleared of steam, Arthur nodded at his proper reflection staring back at him with grim approval. “Better.”

He ran a hand through his hair a few times in a vain attempt to get it to stay out of his face; too tired to actually care he was making it worse. Stepping out of the restroom, Arthur cursed his tired mind. Instead of the air in the room cooling his body, he still felt overheated. Rubbing his eyes until he saw bright spots of light, Arthur jumped when the room’s telephone suddenly rang. 

Glaring at the annoyingly loud device, Arthur debated whether or not he should answer. But then, there was a chance it was Cobb, and really, Arthur didn’t want to mess anything up just because he was too annoyed to pick up the phone. 

“Yeah?” Arthur barked. Nobody said he had to be happy answering the phone. 

“Had a good day, did we?”

Arthur’s head jerked up at attention. 

“Why are you calling me here?”

There was a short chuckle on the other end of the line. 

“Yes, definitely a good day.”

“The job was successful,” Arthur stated as he sat heavily on the bed. “So I suppose, yes, it’s been a good day.”

“For a successful job, you sound anything but pleased with it.”

“Have you ever been stabbed in the neck with a ballpoint pen?” he asked instead of explaining himself. 

He heard a thoughtful humming noise on the other end. 

“Can’t say I have…I assume it wasn’t the highlight of your day?...Though are you sure it wasn’t a highlighter? That comment would be much funnier if it was.”

Arthur couldn’t help himself; he laughed. 

“An excellent assumption, Mister Eames.”

“Still on that ‘Mister,’ business, are we? And how did you manage to get yourself stabbed in the neck with a pen? It’s not like a single projection to act out that way. They tend to share that whole mob mentality thing.”

Flopping backwards onto the bed, Arthur reveled in the feeling of cool sheets. He debated whether or not he should tell Eames what had happened.

“It was Mal,” Arthur suddenly blurted out, surprising himself.

It went silent on the other end. Arthur could still hear noise in the background, so he knew Eames was still there, but he also knew such a weighted silence meant. 

“She seems to be showing up more often.”

“I know,” Arthur said; his voice barely above a whisper. He draped his arm over his eyes and sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was more certain. “I’m certain this is all because of her.”

“Mal’s a projection of Cobb’s subconscious. Ultimately, it’s himself, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

It was fortunate Arthur was on a bed. He repeatedly slammed his head backwards into the mattress. 

“Yes, thank you for that reminder,” Arthur huffed. But he couldn’t bring himself to be angry like he wanted to be. That took too much energy.

“Somebody has to, Darling.”

Arthur smiled despite himself. He didn’t want to smile when he hated being called that. 

“Still on that ‘Darling,’ business, are we?” he said, shifting around so he was positioned with his head on the pillows. “And you never answered my first question. And I better not hear you say that you’re the ‘somebody’ who needs to check on me.”

Another chuckle echoed over the line. 

“Very well, I shall simply ask you where you put the files for the Mercer job.”

“Where I keep all my files,” Arthur huffed. “At my house.”

Eames heaved a long-suffering sigh. 

“Yes, I realize that, but I couldn’t find it. Ergo, I’m calling you.”

Arthur was about to tell Eames he wasn’t looking hard enough, he kept perfect files after all, but then, he suddenly remembered something. He growled in frustration, slapping his hand against his forehead. 

“I take it you know where they are?”

“Different residence,” Arthur grudgingly admitted. 

“Arthur…”

“Don’t,” he interjected. “I know. I’ll transfer them tomorrow when I know Cobb isn’t going to do something stupid and reckless. And do not even think about turning that around on to me.”

The laugh, this time, sounded a little more strained. But then again, Arthur decided he could be wrong. His mind had the tendency to get ideas in his head, and when he did, he became stuck on them, narrowing his focus too much.

“Very well. You seem to be doing a fine job of it anyways. And when’s the last time you’ve slept? Your sister’s been nagging me to ask you that.”

“Technically, I was sleeping about two hours ago,” Arthur said. “And I’ll sleep tomorrow, after-“

“You transfer some files and whatever else it is you’ll do to keep from sleeping. I know you, Arthur. The files aren’t that important, and the Mercer job is still weeks away. You need a break from this; from Cobb.”

Staring at the ceiling and the room around him, Arthur contemplated what Eames was saying. He was right, as much as Arthur didn’t want him to be, and he would need a clear head for the upcoming job. But as much as Arthur wanted to follow Eames’ advice, he knew he didn’t actually want to. 

“Right, so you keep telling me,” he acknowledged. Arthur squinted at the ceiling and frowned. It was right where it should be, as was the window and the door, though he could have sworn they seemed closer a moment ago. “Eames, it’s now or never…or another go around in this case, and I…I don’t think-“

“…Just don’t overdo it, yeah? And anyways, I’ll see for myself soon enough. You’re next job should require my expertise.”

Arthur was grateful for the change in topic, blatant as it was. He took several deep breaths and tried to relax.

“I’ll be sure Cobb gives you a call,” he said. “Speaking of which, where are you calling from?”

“Hmm, trade secret, I’m afraid. Just know that I’ll be eagerly awaiting the call.”

Snorting in amusement, Arthur closed his eyes and focused on the sound of Eames’ voice, drowning out everything else. 

“Hey, do you have some time?” Arthur asked. 

“I’ve nothing pressing. Fancy a chat then?”

Smiling tiredly, Arthur nodded his head even though nobody was there to see it.


	3. Chapter 2

Arthur tapped his pen on his notebook as he studied Cobb. He was concerned about how Cobb kept muttering about layouts and architects. Normally, Arthur would have ignored his ramblings, since all architects he had met tended to be stuck in their own heads, but considering he and Cobb brought in an outside architect to build the dream, Arthur was becoming concerned. Cobb refused to go near the blueprints and models, but he still couldn’t fully stay away from it either. The architect was about at wits end trying to work around Cobb. He would demand she review the layout, only to turn around and tell her she said too much, And if he saw one of the architect’s models, he would point something out he didn’t like, and then suddenly walk away, claiming it was good enough, but disapproval clear in his voice.

At one point, Arthur had to shepherd Cobb out of the warehouse just so the architect didn’t follow up on her promise to ‘choke a bitch’ if Cobb bothered her again. It had then taken an hour for Arthur to calm her down enough so she could finish working. By the end of all this, Arthur had the distinct impression she wouldn’t be working with them again.

“Cobb, you obviously don’t like how this is set up,” Arthur said. “Are you sure about this?” 

“Of course I’m sure,” Cobb protested. “I just want this to go better than the Stein job.”

Arthur frowned. They both knew it was half a truth at best. 

“Fine,” he agreed. “But after this, you let me deal with the architects. We can’t burn all our bridges because you’re too controlling. Nina is a good architect and an efficient worker.”

Cobb stopped mid-step in his pacing to look over at Nina’s workspace. She was out buying some more pens, though Arthur supposed she was trying to keep her distance from Cobb.

“I know I’m being difficult,” Cobb admitted, running a hand tiredly through his hair. “I’m still not used to just being the extractor.”

It wasn’t until the last several months that Cobb refused to design the dream levels. Arthur thought it was a bit of a shame. Cobb was definitely one of the best architects he had ever seen. But now that Mal was more or less guaranteed to show up during their jobs, she was less likely to directly screw them over if Cobb didn’t have a hand in creating the dream levels. At least, that’s what Arthur guessed was the reason. He had once tried to ask Cobb why he was giving up something he couldn’t live without, but the only answer he received was some vague response about needing to focus solely on extraction. 

“Get used to it faster,” Arthur grumped. 

“I’ll get on that,” Cobb responded dryly. 

“That’s what I always say to Arthur too. Fancy that.”

Both Arthur and Cobb stared at the warehouse entrance. Eames stood, leaning against the frame, glib smile in place. Arthur snorted and turned his attention to his notebook. 

“You’re both asses,” he muttered, studiously ignoring the smug expression on Eames’ face. “Did you get what you needed?”

Eames sauntered over to where they were sitting, pulling up a chair with his ankle. Dropping unceremoniously in the chair, he shifted his weight until he was slouching comfortably against the arm rest. 

“I wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case, now would I?” he answered. 

Arthur learned long ago to not respond to any of Eames’ obvious baits. Instead, he focused on the notes he had already compiled on their mark, writing a memo to corroborate with Eames later. For the most part, Arthur didn’t listen too closely to Cobb and Eames discuss the details regarding the mistress Eames would be impersonating. He heard it before, having run through the plan with Cobb all day, and any relevant details, Eames would explain during their practice run. 

“So, are we going to see these levels today?” Eames asked, looking around the space. “Where’s Nina?”

“She’ll be back soon,” Arthur replied, not looking up from his notebook. “Cobb annoyed her to distraction.”

Eames guffawed at the answer while Cobb huffed and crossed his arms, but didn’t bother to deny anything. Arthur felt vindicated by that, no longer feeling like he needed to keep reminding Cobb about his behavior. It wouldn’t last for long, Arthur was positive of that, but at least he wouldn’t need to worry about the architect prematurely ending the extractor before the job was completed.

“Oh, you’re back.” Nina observed as she walked into the warehouse. 

Glancing up from his notes briefly, Arthur nodded his head towards the PASIV device sitting on the nearby table. Nina grabbed it and set it on Arthur’s makeshift desk. Cobb dragged over another chair, scooting it over to her with a somewhat apologetic smile. She arched an eyebrow, but thanked him with a tentative smile. Sharing an amused glance with Eames, Arthur tucked his notebook into a pocket and opened the PASIV device, handing a line to everybody. 

“I’ll set the timer for fifteen minutes,” Arthur explained with no preface. “Nina will show us the two levels. Then we practice with a dry run.”

Everybody nodded their heads, Arthur shooting Cobb a lingering glance before settling himself in his chair. Once all lines were set, Arthur set the timer and pressed the button. He felt his head grow heavy with the familiar sensation of the compound entering his veins. 

When he opened his eyes, Arthur was standing in the middle of an office space, a maze of cubicles surrounding him. It was definitely good that they were going to explore this level. 

“I am increasingly glad I am not a part of the nine to five work forces,” Eames mused.

He stood a few feet away, in a nearby cubicle, looking torn between impressed and dismayed. Arthur had to agree with him.

“So, am I actually able to get out of the box without kicking the wall down?”

All heads turned towards Cobb, who was standing in a corner, running his hand along the cubicle walls. Unlike the other spaces, the cubicle Cobb was in had no openings. He was literally stuck in the corner. Eames was smiling, clearly enjoying himself while Nina was failing to smother her laughter. Even Arthur was having trouble hiding his amusement.

“I think you should just apologize,” Arthur said. 

Cobb squinted at the wall and frowned, his shoulders slumped just a shy more than usual. 

“I’m sorry, Nina,” Cobb sulked. “Clearly, you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” she replied graciously. “And it’s a dream. Just open up a space.”

Eames shook his head, walking away laughing. Arthur followed behind with Nina, leaving Cobb to roll his eyes and dream an opening. 

“So on this level, we create the feeling of being trapped,” Nina explained, smirking at Cobb. “I’ve designed it as a standard maze. Everybody remember the layout?”

Nonchalantly passing by Nina, Eames breezed towards the door at the maze’s exit. Pointing at the door, Eames looked at Nina with a grin. 

“And after Cobb whisks our subject through the blatant, metaphorical monotony of his life, he’ll enter the boss’ office,” he finished by opening the door with a flourish. “Where Arthur will be playing his domineering overlord of a boss, and I, the subject’s beautiful and charming love of his life, will be the put upon assistant.”

Arthur rolled his eyes when he finished by smirking right at him. He pushed past Eames and entered the office. It was arranged like any other office, except there was a distinct lack of feeling. Even the cubicle maze room had an oppressive, almost claustrophobic feeling to it. But in the office, there was nothing. Everybody paused a moment to take in the detail and acclimate to the emptiness.

“You definitely got the impersonal aspect of this room,” Cobb mused as he ran his hand along the bookshelves, lingering on the crystal tumbler set. “This should reinforce his sense of being trapped and helplessness.”

Moving behind the desk, Arthur studied its surface. It was neat and organized to the point that Arthur felt nervous even thinking about touching something. He carefully picked up a pen, immediately setting it down again exactly where he found it. 

“Ultimately, this should make him eager to leave this life behind and escape somewhere with his lover,” Arthur concluded, moving to stand beside Eames. “Which is why we drop him down the second level, where Eames convinces our subject the only way to be together is to give up what he knows about his company’s CEO.”

Nina opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut when the sound of breaking glass echoed in the room. Arthur stiffened beside Eames, willing himself to stand still and remain neutral. If Eames noticed the change in posture, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he sent Cobb a mildly amused, if not calculated, smile. 

“Try not to break the crystal,” he admonished. “We do need something to drug our subject with.”

The patronizing tone of his voice was enough for Cobb to look sheepish as he dumped the shards on the serving tray. 

“Sorry. It slipped,” Cobb explained. 

For the most part, Cobb looked suitably embarrassed about dropping the crystal tumbler. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, and he mumbled about knowing not to break it on the job. Nina just shook her head and pulled out the PASIV device from behind a large potted plant; Eames commenting about horrible hiding spots while studiously ignoring Arthur and Cobb. Arthur didn’t want to say anything in front of Nina, but he desperately needed to make sure Cobb was going to keep it together. But before he could even voice his thought without revealing anything to the others, Cobb was already handling the IV lines with Nina. Clenching his teeth, and trying not to frown, Arthur took over handling the IV line from Nina.

As he was fastening the line to his wrist, Arthur glanced to the side and noticed the pen resting on the desk. He reached over and moved the pen so it was at an angle to everything else on the desk. It only took a moment, too subtle for Nina or Cobb to pay it much mind. Of course, when he happened to lock eyes with Eames, he knew it didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Alright, gentlemen, Arthur will walk you through the next level,” Nina said as she pushed the central button on the device. “Have fun.”

Arthur’s eyes drifted shut as his mind conjured the feeling of the compound flowing into his veins. When he opened them again, he was standing in the middle of a quaint café, small tables littering the space. It would be here that the subject is convinced to give up what he knows about the company in order to live happily with his long-time love. 

“Isn’t this nice, sweetie?” 

Smooth hands and perfectly manicured nails toyed with collar of Arthur’s shirt. He felt a warm body press against his side, and he didn’t need to look to know who was rubbing against him and giggling in his ear. 

“Eames, this isn’t his lover,” Arthur observed. 

The subject’s lover was plain. The only feature people tended to notice was her bright red hair that was perpetually pulled back into a long braid. Otherwise, she was a bit unremarkable to the casual viewer. However, Eames was not looking unremarkable or redheaded. He was taller, slimmer, and had silky black hair falling gracefully across his shoulders. Arthur could appreciate the visual aesthetics of the woman clinging to his side. Shoving Eames off him, Arthur straightened his shirt and paid no heed to the pout aimed his direction. 

“Who is she?” he asked instead. 

Eames shrugged; a one shoulder movement that fit the woman’s demeanor perfectly. 

“Oh, just some little minx I conjured up,” he explained as he examined his nails. “She comes in handy when a plan calls for a quick distraction.”

“But we’re not going for a quick distraction,” Cobb suddenly interrupted, sounding a bit more petulant than he probably intended. “We don’t have time for games.”

Cocking an eyebrow in a manner that was decidedly all him, Eames dropped his forge of the brunette. 

“Cobb, there’s nobody here,” he explained slowly. “We’re not actually practicing yet. Besides, Arthur hasn’t berated me yet, so I believe everything is quite fine, thank you very much.”

They both turned their attention to Arthur, expecting him to mediate. Arthur stared blankly back at them.

“If you don’t get along, I’ll have to shoot you both.”

If he had too, Arthur was more than willing to pull the trigger on either, or both of them. They still had plenty of time before the actual job. However, there was his concern about their efficiency. Just because they had time, it didn’t mean they should waste it by getting into fights and shooting each other when the job didn’t require it. 

“Can we just focus on the layout for now?” Arthur asked. “Bitch fight off hours.”

He didn’t pay any attention to either of them. Arthur just began walking around, making sure the dream matched with what Nina had designed. Having walked the space of the café, noting a few changes he might want to make later with Nina, Arthur was circling around the oversized wine bar tucked into the back corner when he heard it; the snap and chime of broken glass. Head whipping around, hoping to see if Cobb or Eames broke something, Arthur paled when he saw the horrified expression on Cobb’s face. But, his stare wasn’t aimed at Arthur. 

Even knowing what was waiting for him when he turned back around, Arthur was still stunned into inaction when he saw her face. And the moment his mind recognized Mal, Arthur felt something cold, then warm spread across his stomach. He was vaguely aware of somebody shouting behind him, but it came through muted and indistinct. The stem of a wine glass protruding from his abdomen and the blood seeping through his suit proved to merit most of his attention. 

When he had first started dream sharing, he had been told that pain was in the mind, and as such, any pain felt in the dream was simply the mind imagining what an injury would feel like. And since Arthur didn’t have any experience getting stabbed in reality, his mind was filling in the blanks. Arthur didn’t know why people said he had no imagination. If the pain he was currently in was any indication, his imagination was working just fine.

“Why…” Arthur asked as he dropped to his knees, the sudden movement causing a sharp pain to lance through his body. 

Mal stared down at him, impassive, and almost curious. He couldn’t look away from her. All he could do was resign himself to her mercy; his mind too sluggish to imagine a gun to shoot himself. But then, for the barest of moments, he heard the sharp rapport of a gun firing. The sound echoed in his mind as he opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the first level’s office. Nina appeared in his line of vision, not particularly worried as to why he was already awake, but she did appear concerned. 

“What happened?” she asked. “How come you’re awake first?”

Arthur shook his head, ripping the IV line from his wrist with a jerky motion.

“A miscalculation,” Arthur replied.

It was obvious Nina wanted to push for more details, but Arthur made sure he appeared too angry to be approachable. That was fairly easy to convey given that Arthur was furious at Cobb. He felt the muscles in his jaw and along his neck tense painfully when he looked down at Cobb’s sleeping form. He and Eames would be waking up soon now that the dream would be falling apart around them. Arthur didn’t want to be around either men when they woke up. 

“I’m calling it a day. We’ll start practicing tomorrow morning,” Arthur said. 

He imagined a gun in his hand, and immediately felt the familiar weight of his favored firearm. Clicking off the safety, Arthur pressed the barrel of the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger. His eyes snapped open to the inside of the warehouse. He glanced at either side of his chair, reaching into the pocket of his vest. The others were still asleep and the weight of a single die slipped through his fingers.

Arthur rubbed his stomach lightly, the last twinges of ghost pains receding from his memory. A couple of joints popped as he pushed himself out of his chair, causing him to flinch. He straightened his already immaculate clothing and waited for the others to wake, tensing for the inevitable confrontation. Thankfully, Nina woke first, allowing Arthur to herd her away from Cobb and Eames. And sure enough, the second she was out of the way, they both woke up staring at each other. Eames immediately launched himself out of his seat and stalked towards Cobb who was already holding his hands up defensively. 

“Well, pardon me for having a little sense of self-preservation,” Eames said. 

Eames didn’t raise his voice when he was angry. He kept it level and controlled; reminding Arthur about how much Eames keeps restrained.

“Nothing is going to happen on the job,” Cobb yelled. “This isn’t going to happen again.”

It didn’t take much for Arthur to figure out what they were arguing over, and while he didn’t blame either of them for the ensuing yelling match, he wanted to have this discussion without Nina present. He shoved his way in between them.

“Both of you shut up,” Arthur yelled over both of them. “We’re done here. We meet up tomorrow at the usual time and do our practice runs. And Nina, I apologize for their lack of professionalism.”

Cobb and Eames kept their mouths shut, but Arthur could feel their glares passing right over him. Nodding his head politely, if not a little stiffly, at Nina, Arthur maintained his position in between them while she quickly made her escape. When he was positive Nina was far enough away, Arthur turned on his heel and marched away from the other men. 

“Cobb, what the hell was that?” Arthur demanded. Even with his back turned to him, Arthur made a cutting gesture with his hand, ending whatever Cobb was going to say. “You know what, don’t. Just don’t. I know what you’ll say. Make sure you ready for tomorrow. I don’t want to see her again.”

 

It took every fiber of his muscles to keep still and to keep from storming out of the warehouse. He glanced over his shoulder, and seeing Cobb skulking off to a corner with his hand in his jacket pocket, Arthur quickly averted his gaze, hating how desperately Cobb needed to check his totem. 

“That was an enlightening experience,” Eames commented. 

Arthur didn’t make eye contact with Eames as he stood beside him. 

“The mark is cautious enough to merit two dream levels,” Arthur said without preamble. “It won’t work if Mal shows up again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Eames studying him. He wanted to tell him to mind his own business, and if he needed to mentally dissect somebody, his time would be better served studying Cobb. But then, Arthur knew it would be pointless. So instead of telling Eames to leave him alone, Arthur took a deep breath and walked back to the PASIV device. He checked the lines and each of the vials even though it was completely unnecessary. 

“I’m curious, Arthur,” Eames said. “Does she always…”

“No. The same thing would have happened if you’d been the dreamer,” Arthur quickly explained, snapping the case shut. “And she tends not to appear in the first level dreams.”

Eames sighed and Arthur did his level best to ignore him, but when Eames wanted to be heard, he made sure he was heard. Arthur closed his eyes and waited for whatever he had to say. 

“This has happened enough times for you to see a pattern?” Eames asked. “And how often are you the second level dreamer on jobs?”

His voice was carefully neutral, and even his stance and distance from Arthur was too perfectly casual to be anything other than intentional. Sometimes, Arthur grew frustrated with Eames. 

“You seem to already have the answers to your own questions,” Arthur observed as he began walking towards the warehouse exit. 

It took a remarkable amount of effort for Arthur to maintain steady, even steps while he knew Eames was studying him. His effort was in vain; Arthur imagined how painfully obvious his measured steps gave him away to Eames’ scrutiny, but at the same time, Eames knew his tells and ticks. So no matter what Arthur did, whether he projected calm stoicism or skittered about the place, Eames would be able to see it all. 

Fortunately though, Eames was not just skilled at reading people, but knowing how to react to them. Arthur appreciated this particular skill, as Eames would always back off before Arthur completely snapped and did something he would regret. Just like now, Eames kept his distance and remained silent, making it easier for Arthur to ignore the weight of Eames’ stare on his back. All Arthur had to do was focus on the upcoming job, and nothing else. He repeatedly told himself the job would go smoothly; Cobb was a professional, and despite his appearance otherwise, he did have a level of control only the most skilled dreamers possessed. They would finish the job and Arthur would be able to focus on what came next, hopefully with minimal interference from Mal. 

And much to Arthur’s relief, she never showed up once during the job. There were times when Cobb had appeared distant, but he had quickly snapped himself out of it. Eames seemed to approve of how events played out, despite the ever present air of tension between him and Cobb. As professionals, they were able to keep their disagreement out of their work, but as somebody who was familiar with both of them; Arthur had felt uncomfortable the entire time. He had tried to hide it, and for the most part he did considering Nina had given no indication of thinking anything was off, but once and a while, both Cobb and Eames had given him furtive glances during the preparation. Arthur hadn’t been able to figure out what they were trying to do, and it had only served to make him increasingly uncomfortable and agitated. 

By the time they had left their mark sleeping at his desk and handed the information to his superior on the way out of the office, Arthur was about ready to shoot himself in the head. A headache radiated from his shoulders culminating into a dull roar beating against the back of his eyes. But he was nothing if not a professional, and Arthur made sure everything was set in its place, and everybody would be scattering before dragging his body through the hotel to his room. He managed to loosen his tie and undo the top few buttons of his shirt before falling face first onto the bed. With timing that only can be achieved when one is having a horrible day, there was loud, incessant knocking on his door. Groaning into the covers, Arthur pushed off the bed, running a hand through his hair, and opened the door. 

“You’re not staying at this hotel,” he said in lieu of a greeting. 

Eames just shrugged and pushed past Arthur and the door. 

“No, so it’s safe to assume I’m here to see you,” Eames said. 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur shut the door behind him, making sure the locks were in place. He watched Eames walk around the room, waiting for him to explain his presence. 

“Please don’t take this wrong way, Arthur,” he began. “But you look a bit worse for wear.”

“You came to tell me I looked bad?” Arthur asked dryly. 

Finally shifting his attention from the room’s decorations, Eames stood still and looked Arthur up and down before staring him in the eye. 

“Perhaps not in those words, but yes, more or less,” Eames replied. 

Arthur didn’t even bother with a response. He dropped into a nearby chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hopefully the pain of his squeezing would drown out the pain of his headache. 

“You okay?” Eames asked casually, if not too casually. 

“No, I’m not okay,” Arthur snapped. His mood was deteriorating rapidly. “I have a headache that I shouldn’t have and between you and Cobb, my life is very difficult right now.”

“Yes, well, Cobb and I were trying to keep it between ourselves,” Eames explained. 

“You both failed,” Arthur moaned. 

Eames sat in the chair next to him and sighed. 

“Evidently,” he snorted. “But I see what you’re talking about now with Cobb. You need to act soon. He can’t keep doing that to himself.”

Taking a deep breath, Arthur slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus. The room didn’t seem like it was spinning so much anymore, and his body was more willing to obey him. 

“I know,” Arthur said softly. “Listen, I’m going to go out and see if I can get rid of this headache. I’ll leave tomorrow and close the Mercer job.”

He carefully pushed himself out of the chair and attempted to straighten out his shirt before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. Eames remained seated and watched Arthur slowly double-check his pockets for his wallet and hotel key. Arthur cocked an eyebrow questioningly, but Eames simply shrugged. 

“Alright,” he said. “Just try not to get lost, hm?”

Despite the pain he was in, Arthur couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching into a half-smirk. He walked to the door, opening it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Arthur replied, shutting the door behind him. 

The beige walls and geometric-patterned carpet were soothing in a boring, monotonous sort of way. Arthur took his time exiting the hotel, ignoring the few guests milling about, and focusing his attention on his state of mind. He told himself things with Cobb were going fine, or at least, fine as they could be. Their next job will come, and then Arthur will be one step closer to figuring out Cobb. If he accomplished that, he knew he would be able to help Cobb let Mal go and return stateside. There were children waiting for their father, and Arthur was determined to bring him back home. 

Hotel staff nodded their heads politely at Arthur as he passed, but still minded their own business. He stepped outside and took a deep breath, already feeling some of the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen. There was no reasoning behind the streets he took. Arthur just walked whichever way caught his fancy, which was how he ended up standing at the entrance of a smaller back alley. While it wasn’t something out of a murder mystery, there was a certain level of shady to it. Arthur thought it looked interesting. 

Against his better judgment, Arthur continued down the alley keeping his guard up, but still not going out of his way to pay attention. So he wasn’t all that surprised when footsteps echoed against the walls. Rolling his shoulders, Arthur reached behind him and pulled out his gun, releasing the safety. With practiced ease, he turned around, braced himself, and fired. 

Two bodies immediately dropped to the ground, and a third dropped shortly after. Arthur didn’t know how many were closing in him, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. There was something cathartic about shooting blindly in a dingy alley with reckless abandon. Here, Arthur didn’t need to be restrained and in total control; he was free from Cobb’s problems, and free from his own. All he needed to do was point and shoot. With every bullet fired, Arthur felt relief sink into his bones and his mind finally felt at peace. He never even felt the bullet hit him.


	4. Chapter 3

When Arthur opened his eyes, it took several lethargic blinks to bring his eyes back into focus; not that there was anything to focus on in the first place. A white ceiling was all that greeted him. He blinked several more times before slowly looking around the rest of the room. White walls adorned with generic copies of floral paintings bled into a white tiled floor, the sharp tang of sterility hanging in the air. An IV stand stood by the bed, bags of chemicals hanging from it. Slow, steady beeps echoed in the bare room. 

Arthur sighed as he glanced down at his arm, and the IV line attached to it. He gently pulled it out, tossing the cannula in the nearby trashcan. Slowly sitting up, Arthur gradually felt his head clear. The reclining chair he was resting in was comfortable, but a little too plush to be comfortable for long periods of time. His neck and back cracked and popped as he pushed himself out of the chair. Arthur scrubbed his hand over his face as he glanced at the single bed in the room. 

From all outward appearances, Cobb looked like he was just taking a nap, ready to wake up any moment. But Arthur knew that wouldn’t happen, he’d been trying to wake Cobb up for the last year to no avail. There was something Cobb felt, something so strong, it was enough for him to choose to not wake up from the dream. Arthur didn’t understand him, but then, he supposed he never really knew Cobb as a person. However, he did know what it was to want something with every fiber of his being. He wanted his father back.

Four years ago, Cobb disappeared from his life. Three years ago was the last time Arthur heard his voice. By then, Arthur had already been well into the dream sharing business. His uncle reluctantly taught him everything he would need to know to be an effective point man. Details, research, and anything relating to information, Arthur excelled at. The drive and motivation to find his father propelled his career, even though he was still a teenager. 

At first, his uncle refused to let Arthur attend any personal meetings with clients. The only time Arthur was allowed to meet anybody was through the PASIV device. In the dream, he didn’t have to look like a teenager if he didn’t want to. His uncle had been rightly concerned that Arthur would have troubles if somebody knew his age. And while age didn’t necessarily relate to skill, especially when it came to dreaming, telling a client their employee isn’t even old enough to legally own a driver’s license tended to increase their doubts. Arthur also knew it was for his own protection as well. There were plenty of people who would try to take advantage of his age. Of course, Arthur was no slouch in a fight or with a firearm. His uncle trained him well. If anybody did try to take advantage of him for any reason, they would be met with the barrel of his gun.

However, rarely did he ever need to brandish any weapon in reality. When dead meant dead, and not simply a means of waking up, people were less willing to resort to gunfire. Arthur appreciated this detail. The effort of trying to cover up any wrong doing was annoying and took too much time. Everybody else in the dream sharing business shared this sentiment as well. So, when business needed to be taken care of, it tended to occur in dreams. 

Of course, there were plenty who forgot about reality, and they were the dangerous ones; the lost souls who wouldn’t wake up if they died in the dream. Their mind was so caught up with the dream, believing it so thoroughly that when they died in the dream, their bodies gave out in reality. People had assumed for years that dying from a dream was a myth, something only movies exploited for a good blockbuster. But then the mass dreaming began, and everything changed. What started out as a highly specialized field of work eventually became a popular pastime for people with enough money and influence to spare. It took social networking to a whole new degree, where anybody with enough wealth or connections could be or do whatever they wanted, with little consequence. 

There were, of course, regulating forces in place to keep things from getting out of control, but with rules, there were always those who found a way around them. Mind crime proliferated within the mass dream. The general population as a whole was still largely unaware of the full extent of lucid dreaming, so they assumed they were protected within the dream. If anything, the mass shared dreaming made it that much easier to steal ideas. The only difficult part was to find a way into the dream. 

There were dream centers, places where people could pay an hourly fee and join the dream, all disguised as small business hubs not worth looking into. Nobody really knew how people across the globe could possibly be linked together in one dream, nor did they know whose mind was supporting it; only that a person simply inserted the IV line and they were transported into a dream that matched reality perfectly and then some. The setup was one of the most, if not the most, closely guarded secret. There wasn’t a soul who knew anything about it, but the most curious aspect of the shared dream was what happened when an outside IV line was introduced. 

PASIV devices were still popular among mind criminals, especially when it became necessary to perform extraction outside of the shared dream. They were also convenient when an extractor needed to get to a subject who was already in the shared dream, and they were not legally allowed into a dreaming center. All lines belonging to the center were closely monitored, so taking any one of those would sound the alert. But for some reason or another, so long as one of the PASIV device’s lines was connected to a person already attached to a center’s line, anybody could hack into the dream. Then, once in the dream, it was simply a matter of performing an extraction as one would in reality. The only risk was to remember the first layer of the dream was actually a second layer. Too often people forgot this fact, and they were convinced the mass shared dream was reality. And this was how Arthur found himself staring listlessly at his father who had yet to wake up.

“What are you doing up already?”

Arthur spared Eames a sidewise glance before turning his attention back to Cobb.

“I was in an alley, and I think I was mugged,” he explained. “My mind was wandering a bit.”

“Probably for the best then,” Eames replied, stretching his arms over his head. “Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

As if on cue, Arthur’s stomach rumbled, making Eames smirk triumphantly. Rolling his eyes, Arthur turned his attention from Cobb to Eames.

“That means nothing. I was already planning on getting something to eat,” Arthur grumbled.

He cast one more glance over his shoulder at Cobb before walking out of the room, not bothering to see if Eames was following. The hallway outside the room was just as sterile and bland; the only color the occasional plastic potted tree. As they walked past the front desk, the receptionist barely glanced up from the book she was reading. She was used to seeing the same two young men visit the dream center, and Arthur made it a point to stay on her good side. Life was just easier when he didn’t have to sneak around. He was just an average teenager visiting his comatose father. 

“She never waves back,” Eames said. 

“She apparently has the good sense to know you’re trouble,” Arthur said, holding the door open. “Let’s just pick something up.”

They walked outside, blinking a few times to adjust to the bright light of the sun. Arthur soaked in the warmth, relaxing into the light breeze ruffling his hair. Car horns blared in the distance and pedestrians hurried back to work after lunch. The world kept moving, oblivious to any one individual. Here, nobody knew who Arthur or Eames was. The state university wasn’t too far away, and for all intents and purposes, Arthur and Eames easily passed for a pair of college students, Eames even wearing a university sweatshirt.

“You okay?” Eames suddenly asked. He played with the car keys as they walked across the parking lot.

“Are you asking as a colleague, psychologist, or friend?” Arthur countered.

Eames pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“All of the above,” he offered.

“Yes, maybe, and no,” Arthur replied, smiling grimly at his reflection in the car window. His reflection wouldn’t change. “It really all depends on how you’re defining, ‘okay.’”

“Specificity, right?” Eames snorted, turning the key in the ignition. “I’ll phrase it this way; am I going to have to prescribe something and possibly lock you away somewhere?”

“If Cobb keeps screwing up, then there’s a good chance for both,” Arthur said, remembering the feel of broken shards of glass in his stomach. He aborted a move to rub the twinge he suddenly felt, pausing to stare dubiously at Eames. “You’re not a practicing psychiatrist. How did you come by a prescription pad?”

Shrugging a shoulder as he drove, Eames smiled secretly.

“There are many things I’ve come by that I probably shouldn’t have,” he answered.

Arthur shook his head, and went back to staring out the window. He didn’t feel quite as pressured anymore. Food actually sounded good. Eames began chatting about their work, carefully avoiding the topic of Mal, and eventually, everything devolved into an argument about what they wanted to eat.

Being a college town, restaurants with lots of food at cheap prices were everywhere, making it just that much more complicated. They finally settled on Mexican; a little restaurant selling overstuffed tacos for under a dollar; easiest to get to on their way back. With a flash of student ID cards; Eames’ left over from his last year in college, and Arthur’s from when he applied then promptly dropped out of college, they received twice as many for the same price. 

When they arrived at Arthur’s house, Arthur immediately pulled out paper plates, shoving one in Eames’ hand. He didn’t feel like cleaning stains out of the carpet. 

“Why can’t you eat in the kitchen, preferably over the counter?” Arthur asked. 

“Because you periodically need to be put out of your comfort zone,” Eames replied, bits of food just barely landing on the plate. 

Arthur neatly arranged his own taco on his plate before taking a bite.

“Comfort zone? You saw what I deal with; I’d hardly call that a comfort zone,” he said around a mouthful of food.

“An individual’s comfort zone is all relative, isn’t it though? It just so happens dysfunctional with a healthy dose of neuroticism is your comfort zone,” Eames explained. He took another large bite of taco. “And don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s rude.”

“I’m not neurotic. I just don’t like cleaning up extra messes,” Arthur countered, making a show of eating his food over the plate. “And you’re one to talk about rude.”

Even though a quarter of the taco remained, Eames shoved it in his mouth, chewing loudly.

“That’s juvenile,” Arthur snorted. 

“Well, you’re juvenile,” Eames immediately shot back.

Arthur smirked.

“According to most state laws, yeah, I’m a juvenile,” he said. 

Eames choked as he tried to swallow and laugh simultaneously. Arthur pounded him on the back.

“Chew, Eames. You’re no good to me dead,” Arthur said.

“Oh, so you admit I’m useful then?” Eames asked, still coughing through the last remnants of taco.

“On occasion,” Arthur answered.

He finished eating the taco, tossing the plate in the trash and wiping his hand on his jeans.

“Glad to see some habits haven’t changed yet,” Eames observed.

The expression on his face was inscrutable. Arthur only knew he didn’t like the look. It was a rare occurrence when Arthur actually felt Eames was completely and thoroughly psychoanalyzing him. This was becoming Eames’ favorite past time outside of the dream, but Arthur couldn’t guess why. The main threat to his mental health was trying to keep extractors organized. As Eames enjoyed pointing out, Arthur was a notoriously boring dream criminal, and this made him acutely aware of any dreaming. Even the realism of the massive shared dream always felt a little off to Arthur. So Arthur was left to ignore Eames. He didn’t have the luxury of trying to figure out the nuances of Eames’ stares.

“I’m going to call Philippa,” Arthur suddenly said. 

Eames waved him on, biting into another taco, over the plate and counter, this time. Frowning slightly, Arthur went into his office and dropped into his chair. He stared at the phone, attempting to figure out what Philippa will say this time. Her moods could be unpredictable, and she was good at keeping them to herself. It often left Arthur stepping on a proverbial landmine, with Philippa breaking off into a lecture or a tongue lashing. Arthur wondered how she could be so much like their father; even though he had been rarely present growing up. 

Huffing out an exasperated breath, Arthur picked up the phone and dialed. It rang several times before he heard somebody answer.

“Philippa’s phone.”

The voice on the end was polite, soft-spoken, and decidedly male.

“Fischer, where’s Philippa?” Arthur asked.

“She’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” Fischer answered, sounding a little less formal and a bit more wary. “Do you want to wait, or should I have her call you back?”

Arthur was silent a moment, weighing the pros and cons of talking with his sister’s boss. He was tired, but he also recalled his last conversation with Philippa where she lectured him about not knowing anything about her life.

“Why are you answering my sister’s phone like a secretary?” Arthur asked instead of hanging up. 

“The correct term is assistant,” Fischer replied, sounding amused. “And she informed me she would be expecting your call. She wanted to make sure she didn’t miss you.”

“That still doesn’t answer why, considering you’re the CEO and she’s just an intern,” Arthur said.

“I’m certain you know why.” Fischer snorted. “Besides, have you tried telling her ‘no’ when her mind is set on something?”

They shared a knowing, commiserating laugh. Arthur was impressed by Fischer, much as he didn’t want to. There was no hint of shame or embarrassment when he answered, and if anything, he sounded almost challenging about his relationship with Philippa. And he was right, Arthur was fairly certain their relationship extended beyond employer/employee. There wasn’t anything concrete on it, but with Eames’ emphatic agreement to back him up, Arthur didn’t have many doubts. Philippa could handle herself, and Arthur wasn’t too worried about the proper and sensitive Fischer. Actually, Arthur found it a bit amusing. And at the end of the day, he didn’t exactly have the right to object to morally questionable activities.

“True. And of course, she doesn’t need me to protect her, but just for formality’s sake, if you do anything to her, I will make certain you suffer unimaginably for the rest of your life,” Arthur said. He kept his voice serious enough to not be threatening, and light enough to make a promise.

“Is intimidation a family trait?” Fischer asked, his voice wavering only for a moment. “And I understand completely.”

Arthur nodded his head even though Fischer wouldn’t see it.

“I learned most of it from Philippa,” Arthur said. He looked up when the office door clicked open. Eames waved a paper in the air questioningly. Signaling he’d join Eames in a moment, Arthur turned his attention back to Fischer. “Listen, something just came up. Tell Philippa to call me at home when she gets the chance.”

“Alright, but you better answer when she calls,” Fischer warned. 

Saying a quick goodbye, Arthur hung up the phone just as Eames slid the paper across the desk.

“What’s this?” Arthur asked. 

Eames grinned triumphantly.

“Read it,” he ordered.

Normally, Arthur would tell Eames to just say what he wanted, but he looked far too excited for Arthur to say ‘no’ to. He hated how much more expressive Eames was in reality when he wasn’t working.

“Stop staring at me,” Arthur mumbled.

He began reading the paper, noting the company heading at the top and ignoring Eames, who was leaning forward in an attempt to see where Arthur was in the letter. Keeping his eyes on the letter, Arthur reached out and shoved Eames’ face, but suddenly paused. His hand remained hovering over the desk as he read the reread the same line. The few words offered a chance to get Cobb back for good. It was impossible not to feel a thrill of excitement and expectation, but Arthur forced himself to not let his mind wander to possibilities. He couldn’t afford to be blinded by hope, not when there was an even greater possibility of failure. Setting the paper on the desk, Arthur took a deep breath to calm himself. 

“You know, I thought you’d be happy about this,” Eames said, looking a bit annoyed now.

“I am. Up until now, Saito refused to speak with me,” Arthur explained. He tapped the letter a few times. “But he could have nothing. I’ll wait until after we talk.”

“How dull,” Eames relied, flopping into a nearby chair. “It’s okay to expect, and dare I say it, hope for the best.”

“Hope is superfluous at best and a tedious distraction at worst,” Arthur argued. “There’s work to be done, and I’ll do whatever I can to achieve my goal. What happens by the end happens. Hoping has nothing to do with it.”

“As I said, and will undoubtedly say later, you’re very dull,” Eames said.

Arthur was about to tell Eames to go screw himself when the phone suddenly rang. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or annoyed by the interruption. At this point, everything started feeling the same.

“You had better answer that,” Eames admonished.

He didn’t give Arthur a choice in the matter. He was already picking up the phone and pressing the button for speaker mode. Shaking his head, Arthur sighed.

“Hello?” he said. 

“Huh, guess I lose that bet,” Philippa greeted. “I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

“I said I would,” Arthur argued. “And here I am.”

There was a snort of disbelief on the other end.

“Right. Anyways, have you visited Dad yet?” she asked. 

“Yeah. I was there earlier today,” he explained. “We’re in the middle of a job.”

Philippa was silent for a few moments. Arthur was sure she was struggling to ask the question she knew she wouldn’t get an answer to. 

“Saito sent me a letter,” Arthur suddenly said, giving Philippa something to latch onto. “He wants to meet with me.”

He could practically hear Philippa perk up. She made a small, excited noise.

“Is it about Dad? This what you’ve wanted, right? We can finally get him back?”

Her rapid fire questions were met with a shared, meaningful look between Arthur and Eames. It appeared Eames was just as curious about the answers as Philippa.

“I would assume he isn’t making a social call after several years of silence,” Arthur said carefully. He fiddled with the corner of the letter, measuring even breaths. “And yeah, we’ll probably get him back soon now.”

Arthur was proud he didn’t choke on his words. The happy chatter on Philippa’s end fell on deaf ears, and he almost missed the last comment.

“I’m going to come home and make sure everything is ready,” she said. “And after you get what you need from Saito, we can wake Dad up.”

“Yeah, but let me know when you’re arriving so I can make sure I’m in town,” Arthur said, moving into the familiar territory of logistics.

They talked a little more about nothing, before Philippa excused herself to go back to work. Arthur said goodbye, hanging up and leaning back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling, pleased that Eames was quiet for the moment, but was unable to handle the silence. Studiously avoiding Eames’ gaze, Arthur stood up, stretching, intending to get some exercise. After making sure everything on his desk was organized and in place, he walked out of the office, trusting Eames to entertain himself.

As he walked down the hallway, Arthur’s eyes landed on the series of frames along the wall. Pressed leaves and flowers decorated the otherwise barren hall. Mal had loved how the plants looked so fragile, surely crumbling at the lightest touch, but enduring forever behind a thin panel of glass. More than once Arthur had seen her collecting some sort of vegetation, then pressing it between the pages of the latest book she was reading. 

He had later helped frame and hang them in the very same hallway with Cobb, failing at keeping James and Philippa from standing underfoot, threatening to trip one or more persons. But despite the distractions and extra hole here and there, they successfully hung the frames. Mal had kissed him on the cheek, thanking him for making sure they were even and level. They had laughed at Cobb and his inability to perform simple home improvements over tea, coffee, and misshapen cookies courtesy of the children. It was one of his fondest memories. Arthur remembered when he had made those misshapen cookies for his uncle and parents. 

Clamping a hand over his mouth, Arthur calmly walked to the bathroom and vomited. He sunk to his knees over the toilet, thankful he had eaten the taco and had something to throw up. He coughed a few times, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain. A steady hand came to rest on the back of his neck causing Arthur to open his eyes and notice the offered cup of water.

“You okay?” Eames asked.

Arthur nodded his head and accepted the water. 

“Thanks, and yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Dinner didn’t agree with me.”

Eames made a noncommittal noise, giving Arthur’s neck a quick squeeze before standing up.

“Sure. You should get some rest though,” Eames suggested. “Saito is arriving in town tomorrow morning.”

Sighing, Arthur pushed himself off the floor, straightening his shirt. He thanked Eames again tiredly and trudged, with as much dignity as he could muster, back to his room. Shutting the door behind him, Arthur shed just enough clothing to be comfortable, and crawled into his bed. The cool sheets sent a small shiver down his spine, but quickly warmed up enough to lull him to sleep.

Every so often, he would jerk awake, but fall asleep again until he opened his eyes and saw the time. It was around six in the evening, and Arthur still wanted to get some work done before meeting Saito tomorrow.

He threw off the covers, taking a moment to stretch, before sliding out of bed. After arranging the covers, Arthur ran a hand through his hair and stepped out of his room. Steadfastly ignoring the frames in the hallway, he shook his head at his earlier behavior, pausing when he smelled cooking eggs. Arthur canted his head to the side, following his nose to the kitchen. Eames was standing over the stovetop, shoving a yellow mess of eggs in a skillet.

“It’s morning,” Arthur stated dumbly at the sun shining brightly through the windows.

Eames glanced over his shoulder. 

“Indeed it is,” he chirped. “It’s good you’re up. I was afraid I’d actually have to wake you.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as he took a seat at the table.

“You should have woken me up before now,” he said.

“Why would I do that?” Eames asked. He walked over to Arthur and set down a plate filled with eggs, bacon, and burnt toast. “You obviously needed it. Can’t have you getting sick now. We’re too close.”

“I slept over twelve hours,” Arthur complained, picking up a fork. “And I’m fine. I just shouldn’t have eaten spicy tacos on an empty stomach.”

Sitting with his own plate of food, Eames just agreed with him without actually agreeing with him. However, Arthur was still feeling tired and didn’t push Eames for any answers. They ate in silence, only speaking to make bland comments about the latest pop culture gossip. Arthur ate his food half-heartedly, but as much as he wasn’t hungry, Eames went through the trouble of actually making a decent meal. The least he could do was eat it.

“We should probably leave a bit early if we want to avoid the morning traffic,” Arthur said as he scooped the last bit of egg with a chunk of toast. “What?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to go,” he explained, looking less surprised, and much more pleased. “The letter asked for you alone.”

“Saito asked for me, but never mentioned anything about meeting alone,” Arthur said, shoving the remaining food in his mouth. “You’re as involved as anybody else.”

“Damn straight I am,” Eames agreed with a grin. 

Considering the matter closed, Arthur dropped his plate in the sink. 

“We’ll leave in thirty,” Arthur said. “And I’m going to drive. I don’t trust you at the airport.”

“That was one time,” Eames protested. “Nobody was hurt…much.”

Arthur rolled his eyes even though his back was to Eames. 

“I fractured my wrist,” he countered, feeling the corner of his mouth twitching upward. 

“Fractured, not broken. So, really, it’s not as much an issue as you seem to think it is,” Eames concluded. “I’m driving.”

“No.”


	5. Chapter 4

The airport was crowded for the middle of the week. Parking garages were full, and it took several minutes of trolling slowly through the aisles until the bright red lights shone in the darkness. False calls and a race later, Arthur and Eames finally succeeded finding a parking spot in the general vicinity of the proper terminal. By the end of it, Arthur was swearing up a storm of rage at the old lady who had stolen his earlier spot. Arthur needed to work through the nerves, and verbally beating an octogenarian helped in this regard. Eames, on his part, let Arthur vent through the creative curses because he was back to his usual calm, collected self when they entered the airport.

“Do you think it’s odd that Saito wanted to be picked up by us, and not his private entourage?” Arthur asked.

“He probably wanted some more privacy,” Eames suggested. “He’s not here officially after all.”

They waited outside the security check point, patiently waiting for the arrivals to get through. A young child kept bumping into Arthur’s side as he hopped around his parents and whined. He tried moving somewhere else, but somehow, the young boy kept finding a way to bump into him. Arthur glared at the child best he could, but that served to do nothing but encourage the child to annoy him further. Eventually, Arthur turned his glare to the parents who weren’t paying attention to their child’s behavior. He had half the mind to punt the child across the highly polished floor, but a quick tap on his shoulder interrupted his fantasy.

“That’s him,” Eames murmured near his ear.

While other people waved and called out names excitedly, Arthur and Eames stood silently, already knowing Saito would know who they were.

“Mister Eames,” Saito greeted with a slight bow of the head. “And Mister James.”

He paused to stare longer at Arthur who evenly matched his assessing stare.

“Mister Saito,” Arthur said. “How was your flight?” 

“Perfectly fine,” he replied. “My assistant will bring my bags. If you don’t mind, I would like to go to the hotel. It was a long flight.”

“Of course. Right this way,” Eames said.

The three men walked through the airport, drawing some attention when an odd pedestrian here and there recognized Saito. Eames, with some input by Arthur, kept Saito engaged in idle conversation all the way to the car. They apologized for the compact size and cheap appearance. College students on their own generally couldn’t afford a nice sports car. Saito laughed and assured them he found the car charming and reliable. Eames agreed it was charming, but its reliability was questionable at best, at which point, Arthur pointed out that it was Eames’ driving that affected the car’s reliability. A bickering mess of accusations and half-understandable insults ensued until they managed to exit the parking garage and get onto the freeway.

“So, Arthur,” Saito said after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Tell me about Dominic Cobb.”

Saito listened quietly as Arthur explained everything he knew about Cobb’s situation. It was the culmination of almost four years of painstaking work, and it felt like he knew nothing. The frustration was almost palpable, and he almost felt guilty about not mentioning Mal’s continual interference, but Arthur maintained focus and arrived at the hotel with no accidents, though there were a couple of close calls. Pulling up to the hotel’s grand driveway, Arthur finished his story. 

“I see. You have been very busy,” Saito said. “Let us speak more inside.”

Arthur and Eames shared a quick look, before exiting the car, assisted by the hotel staff. Arthur passed the keys to the valet who looked torn between amusement and disgust at the car. With a passing order to take care of it, Arthur and Eames followed Saito into the hotel. The staff immediately recognized Saito and practically tripped over themselves to provide the best service and make sure he was in want of nothing. The hotel manager escorted them to the penthouse suite personally, assuring Saito would once again enjoy his stay and to never hesitate to ask for anything else.

“It really is different at the top, eh?” Eames commented when the door clicked shut.

“It’s more annoying,” Arthur mumbled, causing Saito to chuckle. 

“Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss,” he said.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur sat on the living room couch, glad Eames chose the seat next to him. Saito relaxed into a plush armchair facing them. 

“Now, I will begin by asking if either of you have heard of inception,” he began.

“Planting an idea in somebody’s head,” Eames said. “Yeah, even tried it before. We came close, but the idea was ultimately rejected.”

A small, gnawing pain in Arthur’s stomach caused him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He already didn’t like where the conversation was going.

“But do you think it is possible?” Saito pressed.

Eames scratched his chin thoughtfully. 

“Sure, even though the idea was rejected, we were close, so I’m not going to eliminate the possibility,” he mused. “I already know what should be done differently.”

Saito nodded his head once then turned his questioning gaze towards Arthur. It took longer for Arthur to respond than Eames, and he had no doubt Saito noticed this. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, too tired to try and convince Saito of anything other than the truth. “Regardless of whether I think something is possible or not, I do what it takes to make it happen.”

At some point in life, Arthur stopped trying to believe in the impossible. He wasn’t that good at it, so he found it much more pragmatic if he let somebody else dream the impossible, and left Arthur to work out the finer details nobody else wanted to think about. It was far less glamorous, and received much less attention than the other roles in dream sharing, but Arthur didn’t need any of that. All he needed was a goal.

“Interesting,” Saito said not unkindly. “I see how you two can work so well together. I believe you are capable of achieving what I will be proposing.”

Arthur bit his tongue to keep from blurting out what would undoubtedly offend Saito. Glancing to his side, he saw Eames leaning forward eagerly. Performing inception again was at the top of Eames’ list. There wasn’t a job that didn’t pass without Eames mentioning inception at some point or another. Usually, Arthur just ignored him, though there were times when he admitted to himself he would like another chance as well. But when the stakes were as high as they were, Arthur wasn’t thrilled to find out he was going to be attempting a feat that had been tried by every dream criminal with no success. 

“Mister Saito, may I ask why inception is the way to wake up Cobb?” Arthur finally asked, after swallowing a dribble of blood from the new cut on his tongue. “Are you suggesting we plant the idea to wake up? That has yet to work on him. He’s pretty dead set on dreaming.”

“You are correct that inception is how he will wake up,” Saito explained. “However, I don’t suggest you incept Mister Cobb, but rather you perform inception successfully on another individual.”

Arthur shared a quick look with Eames before staring intently at Saito. 

“Wait, Cobb keeps replaying the same two years because he’s trying to successfully perform inception?” Arthur asked. “What’s so important about him proving inception is possible?”

It was apparently the right question to ask since Saito smiled, just enough to show he was pleased, and Arthur didn’t care for it. He must have done something to indicate he was irritated because he suddenly felt Eames bump his knee with his own. Taking a deep breath, Arthur forced his shoulders to relax even though it felt unnatural. 

“It has everything to do with your mother.”

Arthur wished he could be more surprised, but at this point, he would be surprised if Mal wasn’t the reason behind everything. However, the fact that Saito seemed surprised at the lack of a reaction was worth hearing the dramatic explanation. Finally giving into the residual feelings of guilt, Arthur leaned forward, licking his lips before speaking.

“Mister Saito, I apologize for not emphasizing this earlier, but we’re well aware that Cobb has an unhealthy fixation on Mal,” explained Arthur. “So I guess the more specific question I should have asked was what she has to do with inception.”

Ever since Arthur had met Saito, the man had never hesitated in anything, never shown any discomfort with making a point. But now, he was sitting across from Arthur, with an unreadable expression on his face. Reading people’s more subtle emotions had never been one of his stronger skills, which was why he spared a glance at Eames; somebody who he understood. 

“Mister Saito, you’ll have to be frank with us here,” Eames said, head tilted to the side as he studied him with casual intensity. “I assure you, nothing you say will be too…distressing, as it were.”

Arthur felt himself relax minutely. He understood Saito’s hesitation now. 

“Eames is correct,” he said, feeling awkward at reassuring Saito of all people. “Mal died a long time ago. I was three. I don’t have particularly strong feelings concerning her, other than learning how to wake Cobb up.”

Some part of Arthur recognized there was some kind of callousness in his words, and another, even smaller part recognized he should feel guilty for it. But by and large, Arthur simply didn’t care, and judging by the carefully controlled surprise on Saito’s face, he knew he should care. It made him bristle at the implied judgment. Again, he felt a light bump against his knee, bringing back enough focus to release a quiet breath. 

“Then let me waste no more time,” Saito began, resuming his neutral expression. “Shortly before your moth-Mal’s death, she and Dom were attempting one last job before they were going to settle down for a while.”

“Inception,” Eames answered.

“Correct.” Saito nodded his head once. “I hired the Cobb’s to incept a business rival into breaking up his father’s business. As impossible as it seemed, the Cobb’s were certain they could make it work.”

Here, he paused a moment as if to gather his thoughts. Arthur waited patiently for Saito to continue, nudging Eames when his leg began bouncing in excitement, or agitation; Arthur couldn’t be sure with him. 

“And against all odds, it was successful,” he said.

There was another pause, but this time, Arthur knew it was to allow him and Eames a chance to process what he just said. They shared a look with each other, the disbelief evident on Eames’ face, but there was also a spark of excitement there. Intellectually, Arthur knew this was amazing, and he should be just as thrilled at this revelation as Eames. However, he couldn’t find a trace of it anywhere; just a small knot of frustration and anger. 

“If it was successful, then why the hell is he still dreaming?” Arthur asked, not caring how his tone sounded. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Of all the ways Arthur envisioned Saito answering him, a sad smile and an apology was not one of them.

“For all of our success, inception did not end well,” he replied carefully. “The cost was very high.”

“Mal,” Arthur immediately said, pieces falling in place and then apart again. “She killed herself after inception.”

He felt, rather than saw, Eames tense beside him. No doubt, his mind was painting a vivid picture of what happened. Eames had always been good at painting. 

“Guilt. Cobb feels guilty,” he concluded quietly. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What? You’re saying he willfully trapped his mind in a dream so he can serve out some sort of bullshit penance?” Arthur scoffed, hating how he wasn’t upset about learning the ‘why’ behind Mal’s death. 

With a heavy sigh, Saito sat back in his seat, for once, looking tired and worn.

“You are both correct, and yet still missing the final piece,” he explained. “Even though he was successful and could return home, he still felt as if his work was unfinished. He was filled with regret.”

A warm hand gripping his forearm and a thumb rubbing soothing circles kept him from acting on his frustration, and saying something everybody would regret. For Eames’ sake, and his own, Arthur took several discrete, deep breaths, forcing his muscles to relax. He felt Eames’ grip loosen, but still remained a steady assurance. 

“I don’t know what regret Dom harbors,” Saito admitted, looking almost pained. “But I do know that absolving that regret is how he will wake up, and that inception is his absolution.”

The headache throbbing dully behind Arthur’s eyes was quickly becoming a migraine.

“Cobb can never just half ass it, can he?” Eames grumbled. 

Despite himself, Arthur let out an undignified snort that was quickly swallowed in embarrassment. He reluctantly met Saito’s knowing gaze, and was surprised when he saw genuine amusement, however understated, on his face. 

“Indeed not, Mister Eames,” Saito agreed amicably enough. “He has always had a…flare for the dramatic.”

It was too true of a statement. Everybody who met Cobb tended to think the same thing, if not in such nice terms. And while his dramatics translated to insane genius in dream sharing, it was more of a dangerous liability outside of extraction. Arthur had always hated dramatics, barely tolerating it in others. Cobb did nothing to change his mind.

“Which is why inception is not going to be an easy thing to accomplish,” Arthur mused, his mind eager to fixate on something now that he had a goal. “Too many things can go wrong, and any instability on Cobb’s part is going to make this near impossible.”

“But you will do what it takes to make it happen,” Saito stated surely, and calmly. 

Arthur felt himself smile just a little bit.

“Of course.” Arthur was never more pleased to have his words thrown back at him. “This is exactly the information we had been missing. Will you be staying?”

“I have informed my board I would be taking a vacation for an indefinite period of time,” he answered. 

There was a sense of relief knowing Saito would remain in the city while they planned out inception. Too many details were still missing, and Arthur didn’t doubt Saito had the answers. However, he didn’t seem too forthcoming with any more details, and Arthur didn’t see any reason to push for more at the moment. Too many other factors required his immediate attention.

“What will be the easiest method of contacting you?” Arthur asked. “I’m going to assume you’ll want to be kept updated.”

“You assume correctly,” Saito said, smiling ever so slightly. “You live up to your reputation.”

“Wait until I actually get started.” Arthur smirked as he stood. “Was there anything else, Mister Saito?” 

Shaking his head, Saito also stood, extending a business card. Arthur took it, examining the surprisingly plain text. It simply contained his name, a phone number, and an email address. Flipping it over, there was another phone number written in pen. He read it over several times, committing it to memory, before passing it to Eames. 

“If that’s all, we’ll take our leave,” Arthur said. He glanced at Eames, who shook his head as he tucked the card into his pocket. “Thank you, Mister Saito. I’ll let you know when there are developments.”

Saito nodded his head once, taking a moment to study Arthur a bit longer. From years of experience, he was able to prevent himself from fidgeting uncomfortably under the scrutinizing stare. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Eames was studying Saito in turn. Arthur was beginning to hate how everybody felt the need to study everybody else, particularly when it was him. There wasn’t a single doubt in Arthur’s mind that Eames was studying Saito because he was trying to figure out why Saito was showing so much interest in him.

“Eames, let’s go. I’m sure Mister Saito had a long flight.” He finally interrupted all the staring.

“Right, where are my manners?” Eames mused, catching Arthur’s eye with a knowing grin. “It’s been a pleasure. Do enjoy your vacation.”

“I fully intend to. Oh, and Arthur,” Saito called out as they were opening the door. “Do not be afraid to take a leap of faith.”

Arthur paused, steps faltering. His mind wandered to the dreams he had both shared and kept to himself, memories of a shade of Mal slowly losing her mind.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Arthur said slowly, smiling ruefully. “I try to avoid any type of leaping. It doesn’t end well.”


	6. Chapter 5

The traffic left much to be desired, especially during rush hour. A cacophony of blaring horns, thumping noise, and angry shouts accompanied the slow crawl forward. The radio in the car had finally given out on them, leaving Arthur and Eames with little to do but talk, contemplate in silence, or brood about the impossible task before them. At least, Arthur was brooding. 

Eames was practically thrumming in his seat, not bothering to hide his excitement. He punctuated silences with half formed ideas, combining it with ramblings to himself. Normally, Arthur wouldn’t care about Eames’ chosen outlet for his energy, however, there was too much pressing on his mind. 

He gritted his teeth when Eames began musing aloud again. The only thing holding him back was the feeling he didn’t have a right to complain. Everything was on him, and he didn’t have a right to turn his frustration on his one, constant companion.

“We’re going to have to get a new car,” Arthur suddenly interrupted, hating how he couldn’t have just remained silent. He added, “It should have a radio, or a working sound system of some kind.”

“Is that your unsubtle and passive aggressive way to telling me to be quiet?” Eames asked, not at all fazed by the interruption. 

“No,” Arthur immediately responded. Then, he sighed, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. “Yes, though I did have every intention of keeping it to myself.”

Eames smiled knowingly in that smug, superior way that made it obvious he was privy to something that would undoubtedly annoy Arthur.

“To be honest, I expected something sooner, what with the way you’ve been so tense,” he mused, still smiling. “Arthur, I am impressed.”

It only took one had to keep the car inside the lane. That left the other free to punch Eames soundly in the arm. 

“Your condescension, as always, Eames, is much appreciated. Thank you.” Arthur groused, satisfied enough when Eames rubbed his arm ruefully. 

“You’re very welcome,” he quipped. 

They fell back into another lengthy silence, though far less tense and much more companionable. It still did nothing to remedy the traffic, or the guy cutting Arthur off in an attempt to scoot forward another car. Arthur knew what could remedy the latter, but he trusted that he was in reality, and shooting at the offending car, while therapeutic, would be frowned upon by local authority. 

“Eames, how easy would it be to claim gunfire as a car backfiring?” He asked, once again internally smacking himself for not keeping his thoughts private.

“Easy enough, but too many witnesses right now,” Eames answered. “You could always ram him; claim the car malfunctioned. It’s old and junky enough.”

“That would just cause a bigger delay,” countered Arthur. “Besides, I’d have to make sure the car was properly sabotaged to look like an accident.”

Their car inched forward, making barely any progress. They were still over halfway back home. 

“Plans for everything, eh, Arthur?” Eames said. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And how are the inception plans going? I assume that’s why you’re a bit uptight and contemplating vehicular manslaughter.”

That was an understatement. There were too many plans, and even more forming as he went. His fingers itched for his notebook, or anything he could write on, really. He didn’t want to forget a thing and at the rate he was going, something was about to break.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he admitted tiredly. “I need to be home, with my notebook, and away from this asshole.”

Again, the car in front of him shifted lanes, only to cut off Arthur once more a moment later. Eames hummed in a vague sort of agreement, meaning he was only barely listening, too caught up in whatever passed as a thought process for him. Arthur waited him out. 

“Well, let’s break it down.” Eames finally began. “We already have the outline for the inception we’ll perform with Cobb. We simply make sure we have people to fill in the necessary roles. So, the question is, who do we get? They’re going to have to be good at their profession, but also be aware of Cobb’s situation. Then there’s the matter of who we incept. It might be easier if the subject was willing.”

“Who purposely wants to be incepted to the degree we’re talking about?” Arthur asked, already forming a list of potential subjects. 

“I’m not sure, but perhaps it will be cleaner once we have a team, and more information from Saito.” Eames answered. “With that settled, does it help you work out all the smaller details I can’t be bothered with?” 

Arthur didn’t respond right away, too caught up in “the smaller details.” He knew who he needed to talk to first, and he planned on all the preparation he wanted to do in the dream with Cobb. His plan of attack was beginning to resemble something akin to order.

“Eames,” Arthur said.

“Yes, dear?” He answered, mockingly bright.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

He heard the soft click of a seatbelt being buckled, and now, he needed only an opportunity. The car beside him hesitated a fraction too long, and that was all he needed. 

Old and junky as the car may be, Arthur always made sure it would run smooth and with sufficient power. It took little effort for Arthur to steer the car over a lane, accelerate, and cut off the car in front of him. But that wasn’t enough. Arthur didn’t feel vindicated until he expertly maneuvered their car another lane, then cutting off the offending car again. A brief glance in his mirror showed the driver behind him slamming on his brakes and mouthing obscenities at him. Satisfied he sufficiently had the driver’s attention, Arthur stuck his hand out the window, flipped the man off, then proceeded to show him how changing lanes was done.

“You really are an aggressive bastard when you put your mind to it, aren’t you?” 

It was more of an observation, rather than a question. Arthur didn’t doubt he was an aggressive bastard, since this was hardly the first time Eames had called him on it.

“Did you want to hang around here any longer?” Arthur asked, maneuvering between two more vehicles. 

“Not really,” Eames replied, grunting as he was forced into the window. “However, I would appreciate a little more care with my persons.”

“Sorry,” he said, not really sorry at all. Slamming on the brakes at a red light, Arthur grinned when he saw, and heard, Eames jerk in his seatbelt. 

By now, they were outside the main parts of the city where traffic was lighter and Arthur didn’t need to employ any of his driving skills. It was an easy drive back to the house, and Eames was able to finally loosen his grip when Arthur parked the car. 

"I think it's safe to say you won the record for fastest drive home in rush hour," Eames said.

"I have more important things to be doing," Arthur replied. He tossed the keys in the basket near the door. "Do what you have to do, and tell me what you'll need."

Arthur left Eames to himself, trusting him to do whatever was necessary to make inception possible. As for Arthur, he hurried into his office, barely sitting before pulling out his notebook. Everything Saito told him, plus all the things Arthur was certain Saito wasn't telling him, made it into his notes. The more he wrote, the more everything began to fall into place, patterns becoming clearer. 

By the end, Arthur began to see inception, not so much as an impossible dream, but as a well choreographed play. Somehow, Cobb, Mal, Saito, and their whole team were able to perform inception. All Arthur needed to do was recreate the necessary components, and Cobb should then fill in the details that made it a success previously. It wouldn't hurt that Eames would be there as well, providing his insight and enthusiasm. 

"Oi, Arthur, do you want dinner?" Eames called down the hall.

"In a bit," he answered back, still scribbling restlessly in his notebook. 

So caught up in his thoughts and planning, Arthur didn't keep track of the time and realize somebody was in the room with him until a plate of something dropped on top of his notebook. 

"Be glad I speak Arthur-talk fluently," Eames said, resting his hip casually against the desk. "Eat that."

Arthur frowned at the plate, and then frowned at Eames, who refused to make eye-contact and to move from his spot. There were several seconds of glaring and obstinate ignorance before Arthur reluctantly picked up the fork and scooped some of the slop into his mouth. 

"Happy?" Arthur asked, around the mouthful of whatever it was he was eating. "Eames, what the hell am I eating?" 

Finally paying attention to him again, Eames looked triumphant.

"Stir fry. What else?" He said. 

Holding a forkful at eye level, Arthur studied the wilting mass with a dubious scrutiny. 

"You put this in a blender, didn't you?" Arthur asked, already knowing the answer. 

"It was quicker." He defended with less confidence than he was probably aiming for. 

It truly was one of the ugliest looking food dishes he had ever seen. There were no discernible vegetables that he could tell, and the flavor was on the salty side, most likely from the black puddle of sauce the mush was resting on. Arthur wasn't certain about Eames recent attempts at cooking, though it did keep him fed, and really, there were worse things he could be eating. Of course, looking at their current dinner, Arthur reconsidered taking up cooking again. Once inception was over, and Cobb was awake, Arthur would make dinner for everybody important in his life. 

"Arthur? Arthur. Arthur!" 

The shout right next to his ear jerked him out of his reverie. He set the fork down. 

"Sorry," Arthur mumbled. 

He didn't want to look Eames in the face; he could already tell he wouldn't like the expression he would see. 

"Drifted off, eh? You looked like your mum had just stabbed you in the gut again," Eames explained carefully. 

It was painful to hear those words, and he hated how intentional they were. Eames chose his words with care, each one weighed meticulously. There were countless people out in the world having been on the receiving end of Eames linguistic skills, and Arthur was loathe to be on the receiving end; being clumped into the same crowd.

"And you'd think I'd be used to it by now." Arthur replied, devoid of emotion. "And next time, lay off the soy sauce. There are other seasonings available."

Eames made a vague humming noise, half frustrated and half intrigued. Arthur would never claim to be on the same level as Eames when it came to people, however, he knew how the game was played, and how to get around the rules. The absence of emotion may be a tell in and of itself, but that was it. What it was telling, Eames couldn't know.

"Oh, you know I can't be bothered with those things," Eames finally said, reluctantly letting his inquiry go. "Next time, you should try your hand at it."

It was another attempt to get a reaction, but Arthur was ready for it this time, and didn't rise to the bait.

"Probably. If nothing else, it will at least look better."

"Hn, I guess you're right, as always," Eames deferred. "Anyhow, try not to get too lost in your work, and do make time to call Philippa. She's going to want to know."

Arthur groaned, dropping his head to the desk, just barely missing the plate of questionable stir fry. Eames laughed, albeit stiffly.

"How am I going to convince her to stay out of this?" Arthur asked into the desk.

"You aren't," Eames helpfully supplied, finally moving himself to the spare chair at the front of the desk. "I was actually thinking, and just hear me out, she should be on this job."

Since graduating high school, when their uncle first introduced them to dream sharing, Philippa had not been extensively involved in it. Sure, she wanted her father back, but she also wanted a normal life. Arthur always suspected it wasn't so simple as that though. 

As the elder of the two, she could remember Cobb's first absence and the feeling of abandonment with both parents missing from her life. On the other hand, Arthur had been too young, and he could only remember glimpses that could have just been as easily created from all the things others had told him. There was some bitterness, and a strong desire to avoid the very thing that took her parents away. 

So, instead of following Arthur down the path of extraction, Philippa had gone to college, graduated with a Bachelors degree in architecture, found an internship at a billion dollar design firm, got them to pay for her masters, and land the founder and CEO as her boyfriend, though that was less common knowledge. Sometimes Arthur looked back on the last five years and wondered what he's managed to do with his life, other than become a highly organized dream thief. 

"Why would I want to bring her into the actual job?" asked Arthur. "She's not trained for any of this."

"Precisely." Eames said, leaning forward eagerly. "We're going to need somebody Cobb isn't familiar with, somebody he can train and make a connection with, but who can see everything with a fresh pair of eyes."

He paused a moment, gauging Arthur's reaction, and when Arthur motioned for him to continue, he did. 

"And besides all of that, I'm certain both Cobb's children should be involved," he explained. "Our goal is ultimately one of catharsis, and the more powerful we make it, the better chance he wakes up."

As much as Arthur wanted to, there wasn't anything Arthur could really argue with. Listening to Eames break everything down, Arthur couldn't help but agreeing. Sighing, Arthur pulled out his cell phone, and began half-heartedly texting Philippa. 

"I'll meet with her tomorrow and explain all of this in person." Arthur promised. Sitting upright again and taking a deep breath, he took the opportunity to press Eames for more details. "We're going to need a chemist who will do what we need, and won't ask too many questions why."

"Yusuf." Eames responded immediately. 

"Yusuf?...Wait, your T.A. from college?" Arthur asked incredulously. 

Eames nodded his head, and grinned distantly as he apparently began traveling down memory lane. 

"Yeah, he'll do the job," Eames assured. "He's got the highest demand from dream sharers, legal and not so legal, and he doesn't have many qualms about what he does or for whom. So long as the pay is right, he'll do the job any way you want him to."

Money motivated was both something Arthur looked for in teammates, and something he was rightfully wary of. However, he forwent any of the protests just waiting to be heard, and simply agreed with Eames. If he was certain of Yusuf, then Arthur would be as well. 

"Alright, we have our chemist and architect, and now, the only role missing is our subject, who needs to be incepted." Arthur mused aloud; frustrated he couldn't come up with an answer. "We're going to need somebody important enough to be a reasonable target for inception, otherwise, Cobb wouldn't buy it, and he'd walk away."

Unfortunately, Eames looked just as frustrated. 

"I know, and I can't imagine who we could go after," he admitted. He chewed his lip for several seconds before suggesting, "Perhaps Saito will have a good idea? I'll talk with him while you're dealing with Philippa."

"That will have to do for now, I suppose," Arthur sighed. "Thanks."

He should have said more, but there weren't any other words he could say. Eames nodded his head once, standing with an exaggerated groan. 

"Sure thing." He replied. "I needed a break from my ingenious musings anyways."

Taking one more bite from his dinner, Arthur handed Eames his plate, frowning at the speck of sauce staining the edge of his paper. 

"Now that you've had a break, get back to your ingenious musings and give me more to work with."

Eames answer was a loud guffaw and flipping Arthur the finger as he left the office. Arthur felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards despite himself. However, when the door clicked shut, his smile faltered as he was once again surrounded by silence. He picked up his pen, the tip hovering over a page, before dropping it, listlessly twisting in his seat. 

He didn't want to keep working, but he wasn't exactly thrilled at the aspect of calling his sister. So it left him with nothing to do, or more accurately, left him with no drive to do anything. It was only through pure stubbornness and a compulsive need to finish what he started that Arthur picked up his phone and dialed his sister’s number.


	7. Chapter 6

Lunch the next day was a lesson in patience and a constant reminder that not everybody knew about dream sharing beyond that it was a dream. Arthur wasn’t feeling particularly generous in explanation, much in part to the restless night before. After arranging a meeting with his sister, Arthur went back to laying out plans for inception, only going to bed once he realized it was the beginning hours of the morning. By that time, Eames had already retreated to his room, leaving Arthur to replay their last conversation repeatedly in his head without discussing it with him. And by the time he managed to roll out of bed, Eames had already left to recruit Yusuf. Something in their communication was breaking down, and Arthur didn’t know what it was or what he could do about it. 

“I know it’s obvious to you, but it isn’t to the rest of us. So could you at least pay a little attention?” 

Philippa’s frustrated question brought Arthur back to the present, where he more or less didn’t want to be. 

“Sorry,” he said, knowing he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Point is, you don’t need to know any more details. You just need to know enough to cover the basics and make it look like you’re some kind of prodigy. You need to be young and impressionable when you get into the dream.”

Flicking some of her water at Arthur, Philippa frowned and then pointed accusatorily at him.

“Young and impressionable?” She scoffed. “I’m older than you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

And it hit Arthur then. He really did forget she was older than him. In his mind, he was more than five years older than her. He checked in the nearby window and was disappointed to see his younger reflection frowning back at him. His sudden frustration wasn’t helped by somebody repeatedly calling out to a James.

“James?” Philippa asked. “Are you listening? James!”

“That’s my name, isn’t it?” Arthur mumbled, more for himself than anybody else, though he stared at Philippa when he spoke. “Listen, when you’re in the dream, everything you know is going to be different. According to Eames, it makes our charade all the more believable.”

It wasn’t a satisfying explanation of what was going to happen, but Arthur didn’t feel it necessary to expound on it any further. While Philippa was known to be the strong headed, stubborn one, Arthur could be just as stubborn. They glared at each other across the table, silently challenging the other to step down. A soft, awkward cough interrupted them. Arthur bit back a sigh. He had forgotten about Fischer. 

“I have a question,” he said in a subdued voice. “Who are you going to be incepting?” 

“Yeah, James, can you at least tell us that?” Philippa asked, her tone telling him they would be discussing their impasse later. 

“We don’t know,” Arthur admitted, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “It needs to be somebody who can be a legitimate competitor with Saito within the shared dream. It would also be extremely helpful if our subject was willing, but the chances of that are near impossible.”

“How about me?” Fischer suggested. “I don’t do it very often; however, I do have a business empire established in the dream. With Saito’s cooperation, it would be easy to set up.”

Both Arthur and Philippa stared at him incredulously. Arthur was the first to recover from his surprise. 

“You do realize we are going to be tromping around in your mind and planting a foreign idea in your head?” Arthur questioned. “Brain trauma is a very real possibility.”

Fischer leaned forward, resting his chin on clasped hands. He stared into the distance silently, lightly nodding his head every once and a while. Finally, he gathered himself and matched Arthur’s stare. 

“I’m exactly who you need to make this work,” he insisted. “I understand the dangers and I’m certain.”

At first, Arthur had been upset with Philippa for bringing Fischer along to a private meeting, but now, he knew why. Yes, it worked out great that he was willing to be incepted, but he brought something else. He served as a brilliant buffer between Arthur and Philippa, his calmness balancing their more extreme emotions. And even though Fischer was one of the softest spoken, passive person he knew, Arthur didn’t doubt his conviction or determination. He carried a quiet confidence and sharp intelligence with him at all times that Arthur could respect. As much as he wanted to deny it for all the dangers and variables it presented, Arthur knew he needed Fischer. However, there was still something he needed to know, and he was willing to walk away if he wasn’t satisfied.

“Why?” Arthur demanded. “Give me a reason to agree.”

Never once did Fischer’s gaze waver.

“Because I know how much it means to want a father, and what you are willing to sacrifice for it.”

Hidden meanings and deeper thoughts were not Arthur’s strong suit. He was a typical facts and figures man, somebody who wanted to get to the point. But there was always room for exceptions. Unspecific as part of the answer was, Arthur understood what Fischer meant by ‘sacrifices.’ He could be cynical and demand to know what Fischer would get out it, or he could share a knowing, empathetic gesture with him. Instead, Arthur simply nodded his head once. He had what he needed, and received the confirmation he was looking for. Nothing else really mattered in the end.

“Stay in touch,” Arthur instructed. “I’ll be contacting you about what’s happening next.”

“That’s it?” Philippa asked. “You come to lunch and all you do is not tell me what I’m going to be doing in a massively dangerous undertaking and drag Robert into it as well?”

Glancing at the watch he pulled out of his pocket, Arthur ignored her offended glaring, suddenly losing all his own ire, making him unwilling to even address it. 

“Yes, Philippa, that’s it,” Arthur confirmed. “We can talk about our feelings after inception.”

She replied with a loud, disbelieving snort. 

“Are you even going to be here after inception?” 

The pocket watch in his hand shined dully in the dim lighting. He ran his fingers over the intricate engravings decorating the case, feeling every groove and imperfection. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Shaking his head, Arthur tucked the watch into his pocket and stood up. “But we’ll deal with it as it comes up. Thank you, Robert.”

Fischer tilted his head in acknowledgment, gently placing a hand on Philippa’s arm, keeping her seated.

“Let me know what else I’ll need to do,” he said. 

“Of course.”

And with that, Arthur said his farewells, rolling his eyes at Philippa’s threats about Arthur actually following through and calling her. As he stepped outside the restaurant, he looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant blue, a wispy cloud drifting across every so often, and the shine was infernally bright. If he were given to whims of fancy, Arthur supposed he would say the bright, sunny day was a metaphor for how everything was going. In the least expected place, he now had a perfect subject for inception, his sister was frustrated but willing, and he didn’t doubt Eames would convince Yusuf to join their team. All in all, he knew he should be happier than he was. Despite all his plans coming together more perfectly than he could have hoped for, Arthur was still left feeling vacant and detached. 

There was still planning that needed to be done, and of course, Arthur found managing such things an interesting challenge, and he looked forward to getting more answers from Saito. And he wouldn’t deny a small sense of excitement to try something new, but by and large, he felt like he didn’t care. That, in and of itself was a ridiculous notion, he knew, since all he had been working towards over four years was because he cared about his father coming back to reality. And now that he was closer than ever, Arthur couldn’t understand why he felt the way he did, contrary to how he knew he should feel. 

Most everybody Arthur knew were of the opinion that he was emotionally stunted in some way. Arthur disagreed with them. He was simply more self-aware of what he was feeling and took time to analyze why. It was because of this that he was such a great point man in the business. He didn’t have an edge above the rest because he was emotionally dead and thus overly critical. On the contrary, it was because he knew his emotions that he could always stay ahead of the rest. It was simply a matter of acknowledging he was experiencing an emotion, understanding why he was experiencing it in the first place, and finally, making a decision around it, not because of it. But really, Arthur could never be bothered to explain it to anybody. They each had their own idea and he left them to it, ever conscious that it usually gave him an advantage. 

This was why he was becoming frustrated with himself. The apathy he felt didn’t have some logical reason for it. It just was, and he didn’t like it. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Arthur kept walking down the street, not following any particular path, too distracted by his own thoughts to care. 

"Darling!" 

Arthur's head immediately whipped around at the sound of the very familiar voice. He frowned at Eames waving at him across the small street, a vaguely familiar man standing next to him. Flipping him the finger, Arthur jogged across the street, being sure to frown wholeheartedly as he approached. 

"We really need to work on your manners," Eames greeted. "That is hardly an appropriate gesture to a friendly greeting that you were completely oblivious to." 

"Yet you respond to Darling?" the man asked, both curious and amused. 

"Only that jackass has the brains, or lack thereof, to call me that," Arthur answered. He mentally catalogued the somewhat familiar stranger, trying to place a name. It finally clicked. "And you're Yusuf, right?" 

Yusuf visibly brightened at the recognition. 

"Indeed I am," he proudly responded. "Eames has just finished explaining what you'll require for your current endeavors." 

"And?" Arthur pressed, quietly pleased at the discretion being shown. 

"I'm always up for a challenge, and I have exactly what you'll need."   
Yusuf said confidently. "Actually, I was just in the process of excusing myself to pursue further research before Eames made a spectacle of himself. If you'll pardon me, I'll be off and ready when you call." 

"Thanks. I look forward to seeing what you come up with," Arthur replied. 

With a nod of thanks and a quick wave, Yusuf took his leave, leaving Arthur and   
Eames standing idly by a street curb. 

For the first time in memory, Arthur felt an awkward silence settle between them. He wondered, and a part of him hoped, Eames felt it too. Of course, if he did, he made no indication of it. Arthur hated this feeling and it added to his mounting frustration. 

“You free to talk?” Arthur asked, not willing to leave whatever was wrong between them alone. 

“Sure. We’ll go to our usual,” Eames replied. 

Their usual was a quaint, hole in the wall café a couple of blocks from the campus. It was the sort of quaint, hole in the wall café that attracted large amounts of college students with its decent food at decent prices and the free Wireless. As such, the café was always packed out the door, some even sitting on the sidewalk since the three rickety tables were occupied. It also attracted the fire marshal who had been around enough times to give several warnings and even more fines for going over the maximum occupancy. 

Regardless of how many warning or fines, the café managed to always be busy. It was the perfect place to get lost in, where private conversations could be easily covered up by the cacophony of noises. 

And sure enough, when they approached, people were jammed shoulder to shoulder inside, some waiting in the middle of the threshold, while others took advantage of the mild weather and sat outside. But Arthur and Eames ignored all that. Instead, they walked a little bit past the café, and turned down a narrow alley filled with discarded food and ravenous birds. 

Following the path around the building, they walked towards the nondescript door with peeling yellow paint declaring it to be for employees only. Eames wiggled the door knob a bit, yanking as he did so, and eventually, the door swung open with a creak. Arthur stepped inside, not bothering to pause and look around at the eccentric décor littering the inside. He immediately went for a small card table set up in the tiny break room behind the serving counter, waving distractedly at the cook in the kitchen across from them. 

Dropping into a folding chair held together with duct tape, Arthur forced his shoulders to relax as he distracted himself with all the voices he could hear. He could catch snippets of conversations, words or phrases spoken a little louder than the rest, and the orders being yelled by the cashiers. How the three-man kitchen team managed to keep all the orders straight and accurate, Arthur didn’t know, but he admired it. 

“Alright-y then.” Eames said as he reclined lazily in his seat. “What news have you on your front?”

Rolling his shoulders, and cringing at the painful pops he heard, Arthur gathered his thoughts before leaning forward, resting his arms on the tabletop. 

“Good news is, Philippa is game, despite being mad at me right now.” He said. “Even better news; we have our subject for inception.”

At this, Eames perked up, his excitement barely containable even with his apparent efforts to appear unaffected. Arthur knew that would get his attention. 

“Robert Fisher, son of Maurice Fisher, formerly of Fisher and Morrow,” Arthur continued.

“Wait, the CEO of the architectural firm Philippa interns at?” Eames clarified. “You did explain what we would be doing, yeah? When I talked to Saito, he made it sound fairly intense.” 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that last part,” Arthur warned. “Trust me when I say he’s the one we need for this job. On top of it all, he’s familiar with lucid dreaming and he isn’t a far stretch from a logical challenger to Saito.”

Eames made some sort of skeptical noise, but refrained from questioning it further.

“If you say so,” Eames conceded. “But what do I care. This plan is actually looking like a plan. You say Philippa and Fischer are game for this, then we have all the players.”

“What are you guys playing?” 

Both Arthur and Eames looked up at the new voice interrupting them. 

“Have you ever heard of minding your own business, Nash?” Arthur asked with a mildly annoyed grin. 

Nash brushed a clump of sweaty hair out of his face. He wore an unimpressed scowl. 

“It’s my business if I want it to be my business, because this is my business you two creepers are invading,” he huffed. 

“We’re not the creepy ones here,” Eames retorted. “Now where’s the service?” 

“Right here,” Nash replied, flipping off Eames. 

Despite their complaints about each other, Nash grumbled, excessively loud to be heard, about bastards taking advantage of another person’s hospitality. Arthur and Eames chuckled as he walked away, having heard the same grumbling every time they showed up. 

“How does a guy like that manage to have a place like this?” Eames asked; his tone just a little bit dumbstruck. 

“I don’t know. Probably because he’s weasel-y enough to get what he wants however he can,” Arthur suggested. “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? For some reason or another, he convinced us to save his ass, even though he owes us for life now.”

“I still don’t understand how Nash managed to piss off the mafia, the Russian mob, and the local Triad,” Eames continued to ponder. “Not just in the shared dream, but reality as well.”

“I have a binder this thick explaining what happened,” Arthur said as he held his hand up, his thumb and forefinger about four inches apart. “You’re welcome to read it sometime if you like.”

“Bloody hell, no,” Eames declared. “The less I know about him, the better off I am.”

“I can hear you, assholes!” Nash called out from the kitchen. 

“That was the point,” Eames shouted back. Turning back to Arthur, he shrugged, in what was probably supposed to be apologetic, but appeared rather dismissive. “Anyways, all that’s left is for everybody to meet and start putting this plan into action. I’ll assume Saito will join us then?” 

“He’s done this before. We need him to tell us what he did originally so we can base our plan off of his,” Arthur explained, quite unnecessarily as it was, however, it helped him gather his thoughts. “We don’t even necessarily need inception to be successful. It just has to seem successful to Cobb.”

“True. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to it being successful.” Eames admitted. “Then again, it’s going to be make-believe anyways since Fisher already knows what we’ll be doing.”

Arthur shook his head and sighed. 

“Who knows?” Arthur said. “It’s not very often we get to do something like this with a willing subject. But make-believe as it may be, we’re still going to have to be careful. Fisher’s mind is militarized.”

“Militarized? You made it sound like it was a passing fancy on his part,” Eames gently accused. “Someone with a passing fancy doesn’t usually go out of their way to get militarized.”

“He has one of the top architectural and contracting companies in the world even after breaking up his father’s business.” Arthur defended. “It’s not so odd considering anybody with money knows about dream sharing and extraction. People want to protect what they value.”

“I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?” Eames conceded. “Fine. It’s shouldn’t be a problem…actually, now that I think of it, that could actually work to our advantage.”

Once again, Eames began vibrating with energy, his previous concerns, whatever they may be, forgotten to his excitement. Sometimes Arthur found it difficult to emotionally keep up with him. He would almost be tempted to say Eames wore his emotions on his sleeve were it not for the fact that Eames was very good at conveying what he wanted, even if he wasn’t consciously thinking about it. And that was besides the fact that Eames was controlled to the point of aloof when they were in the dream. However, Arthur still couldn’t deny the feeling that Eames didn’t keep himself in check as much in reality.

“How is it to our advantage?” Arthur asked. 

“Higher stakes,” he said. “We know something happened with this whole limbo business, and what better way to make Cobb relive it, than to have our subject be unknowingly militarized?”

“Why unknowingly?” Arthur pressed. “Wouldn’t it look kind of weird if I just so happened to miss someone like Fischer being militarized?”

“True, however, I doubt he’ll stop to think about why you missed it,” he argued. “And even if he does, you’re spread so thin keeping everything together, missing Fischer’s most likely secret militarization isn’t a far stretch.”

It made sense, and Arthur could admit it would add to the atmosphere they would be creating, however, the idea of purposefully missing something, even if it was a pretend scenario, bothered him. And he couldn’t quite place why. He easily admitted he was a perfectionist, but that had never gotten in his way of doing a job. On more than one occasion did Arthur have to play dumb on a job, and he did it readily enough since it was necessary to complete a job. Why he was bothered by this, he couldn’t quite place. 

“Fine,” Arthur grumbled, hating how petulant he sounded. 

“You sound like a teenager.” Eames said, then scoffing at his comment. “Granted, you are one. However, one must still wonder why this bothers you so much.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he argued, not even trying to hide his feelings after Eames’ comment.

“I had that coming, didn’t I?” Eames sighed. He ran his hand roughly through his hair. “After Cobb wakes up and all of this is a bad dream, you and I are going to have a long sit down and dissect your brain. I could win a Nobel with the paper I could write on you, or at least my PhD.”

“I do not need to know the extent of my issues. Also, what would you do with a PhD?” Arthur asked incredulously. “Or a Nobel Peace Prize for that matter? I don’t think they give wanted criminals those things.”

“I’m only wanted in three countries, and really, are we criminals if there aren’t any laws about dream sharing?” Eames defended. 

“Yes, we’re criminals even without laws. If it were legal, it wouldn’t be done so secretly, and we wouldn’t have so many people try and kill us for it.” Arthur stated.

Eames flicked a wrapper at his head. 

“Must you be such a kill joy?” He whined. “Why haven’t you gone to law school to apply your kill joy tendencies? You’d make a fantastic lawyer. The whole city would fear you and your lawyer-ness.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.” Arthur deadpanned. “Besides, I’d make a terrible lawyer.”

Crossing his arms, Eames arched an eyebrow disbelievingly. 

“How? You’re logical to a fault, you’re detail oriented to a fault, you’re obsessive compulsive, you like wearing nice suits, and you get to browbeat all the poor sods to your heart’s content,” he disputed. 

“You’re right. I’d be so awesome I would want to shoot everybody else for their incompetence.” Arthur explained. “And I’m going to assume the courts would frown at one of the lawyers shooting somebody in a homicidal rage.”

“So you do admit you have homicidal rages.” Eames crowed victoriously. 

Despite the stress he was feeling, and the confusion, Arthur laughed. It was an undignified sort of laugh that could technically be classified as some sort of snort. There was nothing particularly funny about the statement, since he had been told that on so many occasions it ceased being entertaining, but he still found it funny nonetheless. 

“Do I want to know what has you choking back here?” Nash suddenly interrupted. 

Arthur shook his head and quickly brought himself back under control, though he couldn’t help the tired smile plastered on his face. 

“That looks like shit.” Arthur said in lieu of explaining himself. He drew back from the concoction jiggling on the plate Nash was holding. “What is it?”

“No less than what you deserve.” Nash snapped as he dropped the plate on the table. “Only the best for my favorite customers.”

“Customers would imply we pay you.” Eames explained, poking the mass with the fork Nash handed him. “We’re not going to pay you.”

“I hate you both.” Nash stated, walking away. 

It was nothing they hadn’t heard before, so they more or less ignored him completely. There were more important matters at hand, the first and foremost being the food in front of them. Eames continued to experimentally poke it with a fork while Arthur examined it from every angle. 

“It literally looks like a pile of shit.” Arthur said again. “But it smells really good. I think it’s chocolate of some kind.”

“You try it first.” Eames ordered. “I’m afraid to.”

With a careless shrug, Arthur grabbed his own fork and stabbed off a piece of whatever it was, shoving it in his mouth. The texture left something to be desire, but Arthur couldn’t deny that it had a great flavor. It was probably one of the better tasting brownies he had ever had. It was unfortunate that Nash’s food had a tendency to come out looking like something either threw it up or defecate it. So long as Arthur didn’t think too long about those things, he found the dessert to be more than tolerable. 

“Is there a reason his stuff always looks like…this?” Eames asked. He took a tiny, tentative bite. “All his food tastes good, there’s just no presentation. How is this place so popular?” 

Arthur took another bite of the shit brownie.

“He has the skills; he just lacks the finesse to make it look good.” Arthur mumbled around a mouthful of brownie. He finally managed to chew it enough to swallow. “It’s kind of like his architectural abilities.”

“Yeah, it’s why we don’t use him that often,” Eames retorted. 

And just like that, Arthur had an idea.

“Maybe, but we should use him for inception.” Arthur said with a grin. “And before you shoot the idea down, just remember who it was that said we need to create atmosphere.”

That was enough to keep Eames reluctantly quiet. It looked like it took tremendous effort to not say anything. He occupied himself by taking a rather large bite of the shit brownie. 

“We’ve already decided we need to raise the stakes, make inception an all or nothing sort of deal.” Arthur eagerly explained. “We haven’t stopped to ask ourselves why Saito would approach Cobb for inception, nor have we created a reason for Cobb to see his offer as the only way.”

“Just like the Mcnally job.” Eames wheezed as the shit brownie lodged in his throat. 

“Exactly. We do a job for a rival company, the job is a bust, so we now have an angry, and very powerful company hunting us down. Saito swoops in, offers a way out of the current trouble we would be in, then makes the deal all the more attractive by offering Cobb a chance to go home,” Arthur continued. He dodged to the side as a spray of shit brownie crumbs flew past his head from Eames coughing fit.

After pounding his chest a few times and coughing for several seconds, Eames finally caught his breath, excitedly nodding his head. 

“Nash would be the ideal architect to make a botched up job convincing,” he concluded. “I am again impressed by your creativity.”

“You are such a condescending bastard,” Arthur grumbled, flicking a small chunk of shit brownie across the table.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” Nash agreed from the doorway. He walked over to their table. “Not that you can talk, Arthur. But anyways, what do you guys think of my masterpiece?”

“It tastes fine, but that doesn’t change the fact that it still looks like a pile of crap.” Arthur answered. He handed the plate to Nash. “And speaking of the crap you make, how would you like to be the architect on a job?” 

Nash opened his mouth to say something, except no noise came out. He shut his mouth, opened it again, but then thought better of it and closed it once more. There was an almost pained expression on his face that made amused Arthur more than it should. 

“I don’t know if I should be insulted or pleased,” Nash finally said. “You make it very confusing.”

“Let me make it un-confusing for you,” Arthur offered. “There is a very lucrative job for you so long as you don’t question it, me, or anybody else on the job.”

It took surprisingly little time for Nash to answer. He simply stared at Arthur a few seconds, then Eames, before shrugging. 

“Fine. When will you need me?” He asked. 

“When I tell you I need you,” Arthur replied. 

While it appeared Nash wanted to say something more, he instead rolled his eyes and stalked off to the kitchen. Eames twisted in his seat to watch him retreat. 

“You know what? I think I understand why he got into so much trouble.” Eames observed. “He took absolutely no time to think your offer over.”

“Like I said, he’s going to be perfect for the job.” Arthur said. 

Eames hummed in agreement, turning back around in his seat so he was facing Arthur again. He didn’t say anything, and Arthur suddenly realized Eames was also affected by the tense silence that now came between them. Even though he had thought he would be glad to know Eames was at least in the same boat as him, Arthur felt disappointed.


	8. Chapter 7

By the end of the day, Arthur was at wits end. Trying to organize a meeting with so many people ended up being more difficult than rounding of international criminals in hiding. After their job proposal to Nash, they were promptly shooed out of the way when reports of the fire marshal approaching hit the crowds. Arthur never got the chance to bring up their discomfort with one another, though if he was being honest with himself, it was more a case of refusing to find any opportunities. For every chance to talk, Arthur would remember something vitally important he needed to do, or Eames was suddenly called away for some reason or another. Their avoidance was both a blessing and a curse. 

When they had begun walking home, Arthur’s phone had started ringing, and since it was Philippa, he had to pick it up. She had merely reiterated how much she didn’t like this idea and that she would be much more willing if she actually knew what was going on. Their conversation carried through the entire walk home, and several hours after. By the time Arthur had managed to appease her and get a schedule out of her, Eames had already been off in his own study, making his own arrangements. He had passed by Eames’ room three times, each time he had been telling himself to go in their and talk about their issues thoroughly enough to clear the air. However, he had never knocked or paused. Arthur simply went back to his study and began arranging meeting times with their team. 

Ironically, Saito had proven to be the easiest to get a hold of and arrange a date. With Yusuf, Arthur had to work around his teaching schedule, and both Philippa and Fischer were busy finishing a project. Their schedules never wanted to line up, and Arthur didn’t want to wait three months for everybody to be on some sort of break. So, Arthur more or less bullied dates and times out of them, and finally settled on a meeting schedule. It shouldn’t have required the use of a spreadsheet, but lo and behold, he needed a spreadsheet to keep everything organized. 

Following the completion of his spreadsheet, the hour was again late, and Arthur realized he was hungry. Cracking his joints, Arthur stretched and yawned. He strained his hearing to the rest of the house, and only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking away time met his ears. 

Out in the hallway, Arthur looked up and down the hallway, his attention at the closed doors leading into Eames side of the house. The lights were off, and when Arthur crept up to the bedroom door, he could hear Eames’ snores and the sheets crinkling as he shifted position. He suddenly realized he was now tired. Collapsing on his bed never sounded better. Food didn’t seem so important anymore, and he was used to ignoring his stomach anyways. He hesitated in front of the door just a bit longer without even knowing why, but mentally berated himself. With long since memorized steps, Arthur walked to his room in the dark and fell into his bed. By morning, Arthur knew he would be far more comfortable if he put himself in bed properly; however, he was comfortable enough at the moment that moving around sounded like the worst idea possible. 

As he was thinking about how horrible an idea moving was, Arthur managed to get a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand and groaned. It was already past eight in the morning. 

Stretching himself out, Arthur rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, frowning at the drool stain on the covers. And just as he thought, sleeping draped across the bed over the covers in his clothes was uncomfortable in the morning. His knees popped as he stood, making him grunt, and the overall stiffness of his body kept him moving slowly. 

His shower though, was refreshing and it woke him up from the stupor he found himself in that morning. Completing his morning routine brought control and a sense of direction. He heard muffled sounds of pots banging and cupboard doors slamming from the kitchen. Eames was trying to make something, though Arthur could only guess what would require that much activity.

Rolling his eyes, he finished slicking back his hair, washed his hands, and went to investigate the mess Eames was undoubtedly making. 

“Did you lose track of the cereal again?” Arthur greeted. 

He couldn’t actually see Eames anywhere, though his hand did pop up long enough to give him the finger. Arthur leaned against the counter, tilting his head to see Eames halfway inside a cupboard. 

“What are you even looking for?” Arthur asked. 

“Can opener,” Eames replied. “And before you say anything, I already checked the drawers.”

Arthur immediately shut his mouth. He couldn’t imagine why it wasn’t in the drawer. Thinking back through the month, Arthur retraced all his kitchen activities. Then, he remembered. 

“Oh, right.” He said. “We’re going to need to get a new one. I broke it during the meeting with Torkleson a few weeks back.”

With a clatter, bang, and colorful curses, Eames pulled himself out of the cupboard and stared warily at him. 

“What, or rather, why did you have a can opener at that meeting in the first place?” Eames asked. 

“I was making a statement.” Arthur answered with a shrug. “It broke.”

“I really want to ask how, but I don’t think I want to know, do I?” He pressed. 

“You do have your moments of intelligence.” Arthur graciously admitted. “And what are you making that required a can opener?”

“I wanted to open that can of tuna over there.” Eames pointed to the can. 

Arthur grimaced at the thought. 

“What are you going to make with tuna for breakfast?” He asked. 

“Oh you know, this and that,” Eames helpfully answered. 

Arthur wasn’t even going to try. Instead, he walked over to another set of cupboards and took out a box of cereal. It took him several seconds longer than usual to find a bowl and spoon since both were not in their usual place. Arthur pointed to the mess and motioned for Eames to clean it up. 

Eames brushed him off, leaving everything scattered about as he grabbed a spoon. Arthur rolled his eyes as he grabbed the milk. As he took his seat and prepared his breakfast, he amused himself by watching Eames proceed to open the can with the spoon. He looked quite triumphant when the aluminum lid gave way and allowed him to punch the spoon around the perimeter of the can until he was able to pull the lid away. 

“Why didn’t you use a knife?” Arthur asked around a mouthful of cereal. 

“Obviously, because I don’t want to increase the risk of cutting myself,” Eames replied, wagging the spoon at him. 

Rolling his eyes again, Arthur continued eating, watching with increasing horror as Eames began mixing everything in a pan with the tuna. As the concoction began to sizzle, a strong, fishy smell wafted through the kitchen, making Arthur practically choke on his last bite. 

“I taste it in my mouth,” Arthur gagged. 

“Delicious, no?” Eames replied cheekily. 

Arthur scowled at him as he went to the sink to rinse his bowl. 

“Open all the windows.” He ordered. “I don’t want that smell hanging around here any longer…How are you even able to put that in your mouth?” 

“Like so.” Eames said, demonstrating by taking a huge bite. He chewed on it for a few seconds before swallowing. He declared, “It needs ketchup.”

A shudder ran up Arthur’ spine when he thought about it. Brushing his teeth and rinsing his mouth out sounded great at the moment. On his way out of the kitchen, Arthur paused long enough to open the windows that were in his path, taking deep breaths of outside air when each one opened. The tuna stench was still hanging around; however, it was getting weaker the closer he got to his room. If he could still smell it in his room, Arthur was forbidding tuna forever. 

Fortunately, the smell did not manage to reach his bedroom. But just to be safe, Arthur opened his bedroom window as well. And if nothing else, his room could stand to be aired out a bit. He walked into his bathroom and eagerly brushed his teeth. It wasn’t until he was rinsing with mouthwash that he realized he had just had a normal conversation with Eames without any type of strain. Spitting the mouthwash out, Arthur stared into his mirror as he replayed the morning’s conversation. 

They were joking and verbally sniping at each other as usual, and for a brief time, Arthur couldn’t remember anything feeling out of place. For the most part, Arthur knew he should be grateful that it worked itself out without any unnecessary drama, but a little, yet no less strong part of him felt even more uneasy. He wasn’t prepared to call it guilt yet, but it was something just as distracting. It wasn’t uncommon for them to have fights that resolved themselves on their own, and it wasn’t uncommon for either of them to find it easier to act like nothing happened because it was in the past and not worth dwelling on. That wasn’t the case in this instance though, and that was what bothered Arthur. He had never been in this position, and when he thought about it a little more thoroughly, he realized he wasn’t even sure what had made it awkward between them in the first place. 

If he was honest with himself, and he usually was, Arthur realized their relationship had begun fraying before the threat of successfully waking Cobb was even a possibility. Somewhere in the past year Arthur stopped paying attention to it, so caught up in holding Cobb together to notice anything else. He wondered if Eames had noticed, and immediately told himself that yes, Eames had noticed because there isn’t a whole lot that Eames’ doesn’t notice. And of course, Eames didn’t feel the need to tell Arthur anything. 

It was an unreasonable irritation to have; Arthur knew this, but that didn’t stop him from feeling it. And as much as he wanted to be aggravated with Eames, he was even more so with himself. Again, Arthur was self-aware of himself to know that he could be difficult to work with on the best of days, and when he was having a bad day, well, enough people knew to stay out of his way. Recently, it seemed, all he had been having are bad days. He tried to imagine what it would be like to work with somebody who had such a single minded focus, where everything else was unimportant except his goal. Arthur didn’t really care for the idea, which is what brought him back around to his unreasonable resentment of Eames. 

Any other occasion, Arthur was hard pressed to get Eames to keep his opinions and observations to himself. As much as he found it to be an annoying trait, Arthur appreciated the honesty, and though he would never admit it to Eames, it kept Arthur from straying too far one way or the other. If he was acting out of line in some capacity, Eames would call him on it, they would fight about it, then they would go about their lives all the better with it now resolved. While Arthur wouldn’t say he has been out of line or out of character, he can admit he hasn’t quite been his usual either. 

Arthur sagged, dropping his forehead against the counter with a dull thud. This was why he hated dealing with emotions. They got complicated and distracting far too easily. And now was the worst time for him to have a self-revelation. He was so close to achieving his goal, and if that wasn’t stressful enough, he now had to contend with his emotional state. 

Banging his head several more times on the counter, Arthur decided that if Eames could act like nothing was wrong, then he could too. Arthur would just have to deal with his emotional state after inception was done. There was no room for any error because Arthur didn’t know if he would even be able to continue if it failed. Satisfied with his resolve, he rubbed his forehead ruefully, sighing at the reddening spot on his forehead. 

“Arthur!”

Eames shouting down the hallway started Arthur out of his musings. Frowning at the racket, Arthur stepped out in the hallway to see what the fuss was about. 

“Why are you yelling?” Arthur asked.

“Were you going to inform me we are having a get together with everybody today?” He asked in turn. 

“It slipped my mind. You were already in bed when I confirmed it with everybody,” Arthur replied. “It’s not like you’re scheduled for anything.”

“That’s hardly the point,” Eames argued. He crossed his arms and was nearly scowling at Arthur. “And you’re probably not going to get the point then. It just would have been nice to learn about it not because Yusuf asked how long it was going to take.”

No, Arthur wasn’t going to get the point because nobody was willing to tell him the point. He felt his previous frustration building up again. Yes, he probably should have informed Eames this morning, but he forgot. There were so many things on his mind; he forgot to mention it to Eames. When he coordinated with everybody, he assumed Eames was free since he knew for a fact, Eames had nothing planned for the day. And then, he realized he just provided the ‘point.’ People didn’t like it when others assumed things for them. 

“Sorry.” Arthur apologized. Internally, he winced at how testy he still sounded. He tried to force himself into a more neutral tone. “I really did mean to tell you.”

He couldn’t be sure he succeeded entirely, but he must have done something right because Eames took a less defensive stance.

“I know.” Eames said, or rather, sighed. Arthur suddenly though he looked tired. “I get it. Just try to let me know next time, yeah?”

“Right.” Arthur said. It still felt like something was off, but he didn’t know if he would be able to keep civil if they got into it. “If we leave in a half an hour, we’ll be there plenty early to set up.”

“Sure. Are you bringing anything?” Eames asked. 

“Just the usual,” he replied, envious at the ease in which Eames was able to hide any traces of frustration. 

Arthur could still hear a level of curtness in his voice, and as much as he wanted to apologize to Eames for it, he remained stubbornly silent, not really sure what he would say anyways. So instead of pursuing anything further with Eames, Arthur retreated to his office where he aimlessly sorted through his desk, making sure he wouldn’t need anything else even though he knew he already had everything he needed. 

Time ticked by slow enough for Arthur to idly wonder if he was trapped in a dream. It would have been preferable to his life right now. He would be able to change his reality to whatever he wanted. But of course, life was choosing to be unkind to him at the moment. There was a distinct absence of surrealism that he always felt in the dream, regardless of how normal it was designed to feel. This was reality; he had no control. 

While he managed to accomplish nothing of great import, Arthur felt marginally more relaxed and ready to face the day. A quick glance at his watch confirmed about thirty minutes had passed. He walked out of the office, running into Eames in the process. 

“If you wanted a hug,” Eames said as he caught his balance. “All you need to do is ask. Much easier than pouncing me in the hall.”

Arthur was going to deign that with response. He rolled his eyes, making sure to shoulder check Eames as he pushed past him. 

“One of these days, you’re going to have a break down.” Eames predicted cheerfully. “And I only hope I can be there because it will be glorious. You’ll also feel much better after it, I assure you.”

Shooting an incredulous frown over his shoulder, Arthur shook his head. 

“What? You’re going to tell me I wasn’t hugged enough as a child?” He asked. 

Eames eagerly nodded. 

“Precisely what I’ll tell you,” he answered. “And the ironic tone of voice is ironic because it’s true.”

There was a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur felt it would be hollow in comparison to Eames’ joking that wasn’t joking at all. So instead, he resorted to a classic standby.

“Shut up,” Arthur ordered. “Besides, it’s not exactly like you’re the overly tactile type either.”

“True, but I don’t have abandonment issues.” Eames replied breezily. “And I’m driving.”

Before he could object, Eames snatched the keys from the basket and bolted into the garage, leaving Arthur to stand and stare after him dumbly. It took an echoing backfire to jolt Arthur into action. 

“Hey, don’t break the car before we even get there!”


	9. Chapter 8

The meeting was about as productive as it could be. It was a typical, awkward first meeting where everybody was reluctant to talk at first, and it took almost an hour of safe, idle chit-chat for them to be comfortable enough to openly discuss their plans. Arthur made the introductions, gave a brief overview of what they would be going over today, and then left them to feel each other out. 

Philippa was the most wary, keeping herself a polite distance while Fischer proved to be a social butterfly with all the strangers who would be frolicking around in his head and planting a foreign idea. He was particularly interested in Saito, and the two of them spent most of their time chatting quietly about business. Yusuf seemed content to talk to whomever wanted to talk to him and to remain silent when he was left alone. Eames, of course, flitted about between everybody, spending extra time in coaxing Philippa to trust his judgment about everybody present. Every so often he would shoot Arthur a pleading look when Philippa wasn’t looking. Arthur made a point to accidentally miss those looks every time. He wasn’t going to try his sister’s temper.

Finally, everybody was more or less at peace with each other, and Philippa wasn’t actively scrutinizing each individual as much, so Arthur deemed it a successful beginning. They sat in a lopsided circle, a symmetrical one being too advanced for a first meeting Arthur supposed, and listened intently as Arthur and Eames laid out their plan. 

There actually wasn’t that much information to go off of; however, they had a general outline of all the parts that needed to come together. It was now a matter of fleshing out the details. This was where any semblance of order was lost. Everybody immediately had questions they wanted answered and began talking to each other and themselves so the room sounded more like a mob than a meeting of organized professionals. Arthur struggled for control and to catch everybody’s attention, but nerves were running too high for his efforts to go noticed. He turned to Eames for some kind of help and was not entirely surprised to find him just as involved with the others. 

Arthur sighed in defeat. He leaned back in his chair, trying to figure out how to make this possibly work. Seconds turned to minutes, which eventually turned into an hour, at which point, Arthur gave up. Pulling out his phone as he stood up, he sent a text to Eames telling him to get everybody prepared to dream whenever they managed to finish. They were going to need all the time they could get to make this work. 

It was easy to slip out of the meeting room unnoticed. Between the noise and his natural ability to get by without any notice, Arthur escaped into the large hallway. The difference in sound was jarring, and he didn’t realize how tense he had been until it was completely silent. He walked around the corner and dropped into an office chair. 

The room was spacious, Saito having sent the floor’s corporate drones home for the day, so Arthur was free to look around. He wheeled the chair from one desk to another, never rummaging through anything, just studying what he could plainly see on each desk. From what he could gather thus far, everybody lived fairly mundane lives, except for the desk in the back corner. Arthur saw the end of a whip peeking out of a bottom drawer and he now he was curious as to what a person would need a whip for. Whether it was because there was a whip in somebody’s drawer, or that the drawer wasn’t fully closed, Arthur didn’t know. All he did know was that he had the overwhelming urge to do something with that drawer. 

“What do you suppose that’s for?” Arthur asked, using the toe of his shoe to point at the object. 

He glanced up from the tantalizing mystery to see the mild surprise on Saito’s face. 

“You heard me approach?” Saito asked in turn. 

“Practice,” he answered. “Are they ready yet?” 

Saito shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “Mister Eames is trying to organize the others. It is a futile attempt, in my opinion. I take it that is why you are out here?”

“Yeah,” Arthur replied. “I didn’t expect them to get so excited over it. But once we enter the dream, it should be quite a bit smoother…hopefully. We’ll at least have a lot more time than we do here.”

Saito made a thoughtful ‘hm’ noise before sitting in another office chair. For all the awkwardness Arthur felt sitting with Saito at some person’s desk that hid a whip, it wasn’t oppressive, nor was it anywhere near as awkward as it should have been. 

“If it is not too personal,” Saito suddenly began. “May I ask what you remember of your mother?”

That wasn’t where Arthur thought a conversation with Saito would go, and he was caught off guard with it. He knew all too well how much he remembered. 

“Not much. Just that she went crazy, jumped out of window, and kickstarted this whole thing.” Arthur answered. “If you ask me what I remember as playing Cobb’s loyal point man, I can tell you everything about her and how much I don’t like being killed by her.”

It was petulant sounding to his own ears; he could only imagine what Saito must have thought about it. But before he could apologize, Saito laughed. Arthur didn’t memorize, or even care to memorize people’s actions and behaviors; however, listening to Saito laugh, he couldn’t help but memorize it. There was nothing hidden or forced about it, just a simple laugh. It sounded like something Saito rarely did. 

“Dom always said you had trouble filtering your thoughts,” Saito chuckled. “It caused some difficulties in school, I hear.”

“School and dream sharing,” Arthur corrected. He smiled at some of the memories it brought. “So Cobb talked about us then?”

“Whenever he had the chance,” Saito said with a nod of his head. “It was often your mother who had to tell him to shut up and leave the rest of us alone, even though she was always took her time in telling him to stop.”

It was easy to see Mal doing that. There were plenty of times where Arthur remembered her doing the very same thing when Cobb went off on how great his children were. Arthur would always shake his head, and let the two of them fuss about it. 

“You know, I remember that,” Arthur said slowly. “Just the other day he was telling me how much Philippa has grown and how James will be starting pre-school soon.”

A silence fell heavy between them. He matched Saito’s piercing stare with detachment. 

“There aren’t too many people who can say they remember a whole lot about their early years,” Arthur continued. “Even less can say they raised their younger selves. I’m my own uncle and godfather, but to me, it feels like James is some completely independent person. I don’t respond to the name James anymore.”

“You are very similar to the Arthur I knew,” Saito mused. “He called himself a glorified babysitter, and shared a…interesting relationship with Miss Eames.”

“Then not much has changed, has it?” Arthur chuckled. 

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “You have known Mister Eames long?”

“Yeah. He kept showing up every now and again when his predecessor would visit my uncle,” Arthur explained. He smiled at the memories. “We didn’t like each other that much.”

They had been young enough where a four year age difference seemed impossibly large, and it hadn’t helped that they were both too smart for their own good. Eames hadn’t wanted a little brat following him around while Arthur hadn’t wanted an older boy tell him what to do. Philippa was the one who had to act as a buffer between them. She had thought them both stupid, a name she still never hesitates to call them, and had always told them she would tattle and get them in time out. At least that way, she wouldn’t have had to listen to them bickering all the time. 

Over time, the more often they saw each other, and the older they became, their childish animosity had become a comfortable habit. They knew each other’s weak spots and were willing to exploit them, and they knew where their strengths were, making them quite mischievous when they put their minds to it. Then, there were several years in which Arthur didn’t see Eames. His uncle had told him Eames was busy with school and work, not telling him the work meant learning about dream sharing and forging. It wasn’t until he graduated and began to practice dreaming with his uncle that he met Eames again. 

With all that Arthur had learned about his family and their careers in dream sharing, he thought things would be different between them. Too much had changed for the same youthful ease to remain. But he had been happily proven wrong. It was as if they hadn’t spent years apart; that they saw each other only the other day and picked up their last fight where it left off. The only real difference now, was that they could be in a dream and were no longer limited to verbal repartees. Their respective mentors had encouraged them and often let them loose to wreak havoc as they saw fit. 

“At some point, we became just like the Arthur and Eames before us,” Arthur said. “So when they both died, nobody was the wiser when Eames and I took their places. Very few knew what any of us looked like in reality, so it was perfectly acceptable that Eames was now a young man and Arthur managed to de-age and lose a French accent…because Eames said he would slap the accent out of me if I adopted one.”

Again, Saito laughed, though Arthur supposed it was more from a memory rather than something he specifically said. 

“Miss Eames always tried to train your mother and uncle out of their accents,” Saito recalled. “They would be sure to speak with exaggerated accents whenever she was around.”

Arthur smiled at that. He remembered the previous Eames never stuck with one accent. It had changed every time he saw her, and she was extremely proud that nobody could figure out where she was from. Not even the current Eames could say he knew where she was from. 

Again, they fell into a silence, both lost in their own memories, until Arthur swiveled his chair to face Saito. 

“Do you think Cobb will wake up and remember?” Arthur asked. “Even though he thinks he’s in the past, he hasn’t noticed the difference between the Arthur and Eames he knew and us. For all that we’re similar, we’re not like them. Shouldn’t he know we’re not them? How far into his dream is he that he doesn’t even notice the glaring the differences?”

Desperation and despair warred inside Arthur’s mind. He needed Cobb to wake up, but he couldn’t imagine how he could or would for that matter. 

“You said you don’t believe in doing the impossible, but you will do anything you can to make it possible.” Saito said. “Perhaps, that is all you can do. If you think you are losing hope, then do not hope. It is your job to do what needs to be done. Leave it at that.”

That was the philosophy Arthur had always tried to live by. It’s what made him a professional at his job. Nevertheless, he felt he was failing at it; he was just going through the motions. For such a life and death type of situation, Arthur thought that he should be feeling something other than obligation and the obsessive need to do a job well. 

“But if I may say one more thing,” Saito persisted. Arthur nodded for him to continue. “Even if you do not believe, that doesn’t mean you cannot hope. Hope is a useful tool for motivation. People like you and I succeed because we don’t waste our time believing in something. But we hope for it, and it drives us forward. Who knows what else we manage to achieve along the way?”

Arthur frowned as he thought about Saito’s words. He instinctively knew what Saito was saying, however, he couldn’t quite grasp how he was supposed to keep hoping. At this point, Arthur was simply drained. Hoping took more energy and time than he had to spare. 

“Now, we shall see about this mysterious drawer,” Saito suddenly drawled. 

“Isn’t that a violation of privacy or something?” Arthur asked, pleased they were going to ignore the previous conversation. 

“I own this building. Therefore, I own this desk. I can do what I want with my desk,” Saito imperiously explained. “If I don’t touch anything inside the desk, I cannot be at fault.”

He didn’t wait for Arthur to respond. He grabbed the drawer handle and pulled it open. Leaning forward to see inside, Arthur felt his eyebrows creep up to his hairline as he catalogued the contents.

“Wow,” Arthur stated. “…I kind of want to meet this person.”

Saito joined him in being mildly impressed, making a thoughtful hum. Arthur nudged the drawer a bit to move the contents around a bit. He wanted to make sure he saw everything. 

After a few moments of silently studying, and admiring, the drawer, Saito pushed it closed; making sure the end of the whip was safely tucked away. Arthur leaned back in his chair. 

“What goes on at this office?” He asked. 

“Apparently something more fun than my other offices,” Saito responded. 

“Fun and office don’t go together,” Eames interrupted. 

Arthur knew he should feel a little bad about how frazzled Eames looked, but in reality, he didn’t feel all that bad for him. Maybe now Eames would appreciate what Arthur’s job entails on a regular basis. 

“It does when you sit at this desk,” Arthur argued. He made a vague waving motion. “Is everybody ready?”

“That’s why I’m playing fetch,” Eames groused. “And what’s so great about that desk?”

“Nothing, Mister Eames,” Saito answered dismissively.

Eames looked skeptical, but he didn’t press Saito for a better answer. He did glance questioningly at Arthur who shook his head and rolled his chair back to the desk he stole it from. 

They followed Saito back to the meeting room where everybody had resumed speaking at quieter levels. Arthur was pleased to see Philippa actively engaging Yusuf in a non-hostile manner. When they entered, everybody became silent and stared expectantly between Arthur, Eames, and Saito. 

“From now on, if we meet, we’ll be meeting in the dream,” Arthur ordered. “And at these first stages, we’ll be using a PASIV instead of the mass shared dream.”

As he spoke, Eames pulled the PASIV case from under his seat and set it on the conference table. He distributed the lines then motioned for Yusuf to hand him something. Yusuf tossed him a small, amber bottle that Eames used to replace the typical somnacin vial with. 

“I though it might be efficient for me to show you some of my work before we head into the dream.” Yusuf quickly explained at Arthur’s questioning glare. “We’re going to be in so many dream levels, I thought it would be good to make sure everything went together.”

"What are the properties?" Arthur asked. 

"It has a sedative in it. A light one, mind you," Yusuf reassured. "It's just going to give us about two hours to the five."

Philippa looked curiously at Arthur, who just waved her question away. 

"You'll get what we're talking about soon," he said. "Everybody know how to put in their lines?"

There were nods, a couple more confident than others, and Arthur waited for everybody to be set before pressing the plunger. 

When he opened his eyes, he was standing in a large, open field stretching beyond the horizon. The sun was bright, but the air was still cool from the steady breeze. The field was a pallet of brilliant green, bright blues, and far too brightly colored flowers, the kind of color that only appeared courtesy of a children's marker. 

"Lovely, isn't it?" Eames asked beside him. "You never were particularly good at drawing."

"Shut up." Arthur said. "We can't all paint Rembrandt."

"Granted," he replied. "But must everything be so...symmetrical?"

"Symmetrical comes naturally," Arthur answered. "I didn't exactly put a lot of thought into the landscape."

"Well, at least you didn't drop us into another stuffy office," Eames supposed.

"James! Eames!"

Eames glanced over his shoulder. He nudged Arthur as he turned around and walked towards Philippa in the distance. 

"Come on then, that would be us," he said. 

"We're going to have to make sure she doesn't call me that." Arthur muttered as he followed Eames. 

The neatly trimmed grass was easy to pass through as it swayed in unison with the breeze, much to Eames' amusement. After a few psychoanalytical comments from Eames, they finally reached the others. 

"Whoa," Philippa exclaimed. "Why do you look like that?"

Arthur looked down at his clothes and shrugged. 

"This is what I look like when I dream," he explained. "I'm never James, in the dream. I'm Arthur. And we'll talk about the details of it later. For now, just get used to calling me Arthur. That's what everybody else knows me as, especially Cobb."

It was obvious Philippa wanted to object, however, Fischer gave her a light nudge, keeping her silent. 

"Before we begin, may I have a moment to ask something?" Yusuf raised his hand. At Arthur's nod, he pointed over his shoulder. "What the bloody hell are those things? I mean, everybody else sees them too, right?"

Arthur reached over and slapped Eames upside the head. 

"Jackass, it's not that bad," he argued. "And why do your stick figures look like they were drawn by a drunk?"

"Why are stick figures running around?" Yusuf pressed. "They're mildly terrifying...I can see through their heads."

"I can't help how my mind fills in the details," Eames defended. "And I don't mean to imply I find your landscape overly simplistic...wait, no, I do, actually, find it overly simplistic. So, there you have it then."

"I'm shooting you in the face repeatedly if they start pulling out stick figure guns," Arthur threatened. 

Yusuf visibly blanched at that.


	10. Chapter 9

There were ultimately no stick figure guns. Except for the last few minutes of the dream; that involved a fire fight with a unit of heavily armed stick figures firing box shaped guns and dashed lines for bullets. Everybody died quickly. The whole thing was too ridiculous for anybody to be anything but distracted, though Arthur had enough presence of mind to shoot Eames repeatedly in the face.

They woke up groaning, Yusuf complaining about nightmares, and Eames laughing. Philippa immediately set into Arthur about what she should expect from inception while Arthur was just happy she was calling him Arthur. It was Saito who brought everybody back under control. He calmly reminded them about what they discussed in the dream, then just as calmly dismissed them. 

Arthur was dragged away by Philippa the minute they stepped out. He wasn't allowed to protest his sister manhandling him down the street, and apparently Fischer wasn't allowed to protest Eames herding him somewhere. Arthur recalled that the two of them had been conspiring at some point in the dream. He sighed and wondered what Eames was planning on talking about with Fischer as he obediently followed his sister to a local burger joint. He paid little attention to what she ordered for them, his mind wondering how difficult Eames will be about about telling him what he was meeting with Fischer about instead. 

He supposed he should have paid more attention to the very legitimate concerns from Philippa, but it wasn't as if he would be able to make any guarantees. When he told her as such, she chucked a french fry at his head and called him an insensitive jerk. He then had to endure her frustrated worrying about his chosen career path. 

By the time she finished, Arthur was already done with his meal. Philippa sighed at him and made Arthur order her a milkshake. He gladly complied, if only to get away from her for a few moments. When he thought about it that way, he did feel guilty for not wanting to spend time with his sister who he already didn’t see that often. However, there was only so much lecturing he could handle, particularly when the lectures were too insightful. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it all before, or even thought about it himself. He just chose to ignore it, and it was much easier to do when somebody else was right there pointing out every fault and shortcoming. And now wasn’t the greatest time for these things either. There were still so many more important things he needed to focus on, his work was already below his usual standards, and he had enough emotional turmoil to last him well beyond inception. It also didn’t help that they would be planning inception on the fly because Saito emphasized the need to make sure they followed Cobb’s line of thinking. So far, Arthur hasn’t liked Cobb’s line of thinking since he first met him as Arthur. 

After handing Philippa her dessert, Arthur resigned himself to more lecturing or unnecessary worrying. However, his sister just sat silently, sipping her milkshake and scrutinizing him. While he was thankful it was quieter, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the Cobb-esque staring. 

At one point, Arthur tried to excuse himself, but he was promptly ordered to sit back down. Despite having walked out on the most powerful people on the planet, Arthur found himself unable to disobey Philippa. 

She made him sit with her for another fifteen minutes before she sent him on his way. He offered to walk her home, but she refused, informing him that Fischer was going to pick her up. Sure enough, when Arthur stepped outside, Fischer's expensive, yet nondescript car was waiting by the curb. A short distance behind it was Arthur's jalopy, Eames's arm sticking out the window and waving. 

They said goodbye to each other, Arthur reminding Philippa to start coming with an alternate identity to use in the dream. She ordered him to focus on his own business and trust she knew what she was doing. It was probably supposed to be a friendly parting jibe, but Arthur was once again feeling as if Philippa was trying to make a point about something instead. Maybe he was being paranoid; the stress of the job finally getting to him, or more likely, Philippa and Eames were conspiring to drive him to distraction with meaningful nothings. That still made him paranoid, he supposed, but since it was true, he didn't think he needed to qualify it as such. 

Eames asked him about dinner with Philippa a bit too casually, to which Arthur simply told him it was fine. He didn't know what the two of them were playing at; he just knew he wasn't in the mood to play along. Any peace he had found prior to their dream meeting was dried up, and he knew if he were to try and play it out how Eames wanted it to, Arthur would undoubtedly do something they would both regret. So, to preserve their status quo, forced as it was now, Arthur chose to keep to himself. 

That meant, as much as he wanted to, he forced himself to not ask about Eames' dinner date with Fischer. Besides, he was next to certain he wasn't going to get a straight answer, and right now, all he could handle was straight forward business; something Eames wasn't particularly fond of doing. 

Eames tried a few different angles to get Arthur to talk, but he remained steadfast in his silence. He had enough practice to know how to evade each of Eames' approaches. Finally, they settled into an uncomfortable silence occasionally broken by stilted small talk. 

Eventually, they arrived back at the house, and they couldn't get away from each other fast enough. Arthur retreated into his office while Eames immediately locked himself in his own space. There were not many reasons for him to be in the office. Everything he could do for now was already done, but he was reluctant leave the sanctity of the space.  
The office was the one place in the house that had changed throughout the years. It was necessary to adapt the space to fit whatever he needed for his work. Over time, it became the one place where he didn't need to worry about anything outside of what he wanted to worry about.

He sat comfortably at his desk, running his hand along the worn, yet still polished surface. There were small nicks here and there, a testament to the work Arthur put it through. He shifted in his seat, finding something digging into his leg. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. Holding it up to the desk light, he contemplated what to do with it.  
It was an old trinket he had found when he traded out his father's old desk for the one he currently used. The desk had been a part of a yard sale Arthur had just happened to pass by when he had been detoured on his way home. He had needed a larger desk for his growing stack of files, and he had liked the way the desk looked.

When he had finally managed to get the desk into his office, Arthur had begun cleaning it, and had just happened to notice one of the drawers didn't match the size it indicated on the outside. After further examination, he had found a secret compartment and the pocket watch. Even before a further study, Arthur had been able to tell it wasn't an expensive watch. It also hadn't worked, and when he had pulled it apart, there were several key components missing. 

Arthur had every intention of fixing the watch, but he never found the time to do so. Eames had laughed when Arthur told him that. Since then, Arthur stopped caring about fixing the watch, and took to carrying it with him. 

He dropped the watch on the desk and stood up. Making his way to Eames' room, he didn't hesitate to knock. He heard something drop, then a curse, before the door opened and Eames asked him what he wanted. 

Arthur was taken aback by the curt tone and dismissive posture. As Eames stood defensively in the doorway with an irritated expectant look, Arthur felt his confidence falter and doubts beginning to creep in. He felt like a fool and quickly made an excuse about forgetting what he was going to say and that he was going to go to bed. Eames frowned and offered a short 'good night' before shutting the door in Arthur's face. 

Everybody had a breaking point, and Arthur thought he might have found Eames'. He berated himself for letting things get this out of hand, and regretted his inability to communicate his thoughts and feelings the same way Eames did. They had always been vastly different from each other, but they made it work and their individual styles blended with natural ease. Nevertheless, Arthur reasoned that there needed to be something more than just having complimentary working styles. 

They were friends, Arthur had never doubted that before, and he knew friends shared things in common, and for having known Eames as long as he has, Arthur realized they didn't share a whole lot in common. They were never able to fully relate to the other. This had never been an issue before, outside the occasional verbal and physical scuffle, but apparently, whatever working relationship they had been working with was at its limit. 

His hand hovered over the door, ready to knock again, but he dropped it to his side. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, pausing in front of the office, only to keep walking towards his room.

As he prepared for bed, Arthur composed several apologies, explanations, and rants; all of them true and meaningless. He felt exhausted by the time he fell into bed, ill at ease yet resigned. His final thought before falling asleep was how often he would see Eames when they parted ways after inception.


	11. Chapter 10

Preparing for inception was just as impossible to plan as Arthur thought it would be. It didn't help that they were literally planning it as they were planning it. Both Eames and Saito were adamant they needed to be as natural as possible, and that was achievable only if they didn't follow a set script. Arthur understood their reasoning, he just didn't like it. In fact, he hated it. 

Cobb was being his usual manic, cryptic self, and just like they planned, he drew Philippa into his world, except now she was Ariadne. Arthur thought it was the most unsubtle name in the world. It earned him a swift kick to his shin and orders to shut up. Cobb didn't think anything of it, so Arthur should just mind his own business.

Unfortunately, it was Arthur' job to mind everybody's business. On top of making sure everything ran smoothly, he had to keep everything running smoothly in reality too. That often meant he was making trips to reality, sometimes by himself, other times with someone else from the team. He told them they still needed to have some idea of how they intended to make their plans, and while it wasn't a lie, it was his true motivation. With as much time as they were spending in the dream, Arthur didn't want any of them losing track of reality. 

Philippa had made a passing comment about understanding how Cobb could be trapped when it felt so real. Since then, Arthur was borderline obsessive in ensuring everybody made it back to reality. The only one who had been proven difficult to drag back was Eames. 

Arthur tried to keep his distance from him, and for the most part, it was a simple enough task. Eames was proving to just as willing to keep their distance. The times they were together, they filled it with their usual verbal sparring, except it was barely civil, and reminded Arthur too much of when they first met and words were filled with hostile intent. It never got in the way of their work, so Arthur didn't feel as if he had a reason to confront Eames about it. 

Be that as it may, Arthur had no compunction dragging him back to reality. He knew Eames was one of the last people he had to worry about, but Arthur couldn't help himself. Watching Cobb grow more withdrawn and desperate, Arthur felt an overwhelming fear the same thing would happen with Eames. 

As the forger, Eames had to be several people, not just as a part of inception, but also as a part of Cobb's reality. Forging usually meant Arthur could count on Eames keeping track of dream and reality since he couldn't be a buxom blonde in reality on a whim. However, he also knew how often Eames pushed himself in his roles. This is what made Arthur forcibly drag Eames out of the warehouse, around the corner, and shoot him in the head. 

Before Arthur had a chance to reorient himself in reality, he felt Eames grab the scruff of his shirt and practically drag him out of the private room Saito had everybody moved to. Arthur was tempted to fight him off, but turn around was fair play. So long as Eames didn't pull out a gun, he let himself be guided to his car. 

Eames didn't let go of his shirt until he opened the car door and shoved Arthur into the seat like an unruly child. He slammed the door hard enough to make the frame rattle, and Arthur wouldn't be surprised if the door was now going to be difficult to open. Judging by the mood Eames was in, Arthur felt it wise to put on his seat belt and let it play out. 

Once Eames got in the car, he immediately set into Arthur. It wasn't loud, nor did he gesture wildly. All Eames did was talk quietly and precisely. It was one of the rare occasions where Eames didn't play around with his words. Arthur hated the fact that the only way he can get a straight answer was when Eames was mad at him. 

The ride back to the house was tense, and as much as Arthur wanted to be angry back, he kept his mouth shut. Whether it was because he didn't have a good defense against the accusations hurled his way, or because he felt he didn't have the right to defend his actions, Arthur wasn't certain. Either one, or some combination of the two was a likely reason. But everyone had their limits. Penitent or not, by the time they reached the house, Arthur couldn't stand hearing Eames repeatedly telling him how much of a bastard he was being recently, and how, if inception failed, it would be because of him. 

He held his tongue in check, and was about to retreat to his office to let this blow over when Eames made one final parting accusation. 

"You're so damn blind to anything other than waking Cobb up; you don't even realize how much you're alienating the few people who can actually stand to be around you."

It didn't matter that Eames was angry and was saying things he didn't mean. It also didn't matter that Arthur understood that. All Arthur could hear was that Eames assumed he didn't know he was going to be alone.

"I understand it perfectly," Arthur growled, his back to Eames. "You don't know how well I understand how I'm 'alienating' people."

He suddenly whirled around and met Eames' surprised gaze with his own despairing one. 

"You don't think I realize I'm never getting my life back?" Arthur demanded. "You don't think I realize I'm fighting for something that stopped existing four years ago, or really, even longer than that?"

Eames remained silent, all the anger rapidly fading as his shoulders began to sag.

"I am never getting my father back," Arthur stated with a calmness and clarity he didn't know he could feel. "Even if he wakes up, he's never going to be 'Dad.' I'm always going to think of him as Cobb, and maybe, maybe if I'm lucky, I might start calling him Dom again."

Arthur took a step back when Eames stepped forward. 

"So what about me?" Arthur asked. "I don't even respond to my given name anymore. James is some stranger from a time when I didn't know any better. Most days, I forget I'm not even twenty yet. You and everybody else tell me to go to college, meet people my own age, and live my life. I can't relate to them. How can I when I have more experience than all of them, when I'm mentally older than everybody else my age?"

Eames looked like he wanted to say something, but Arthur cut him off. 

"And let's not forget about mother dearest." Arthur said with a humorless grin. "My only memories of her are of her descent into madness, and the morbid fascination she has with killing me in painfully new ways." 

By now, Eames was trying to approach Arthur, but he kept drawing away. 

"So yes, Eames, I understand more than you know," he snapped, distantly aware he was breathing hard and his voice was cracking. "I started all of this when I was young, and naive, and stupidly believed everything would be alright. By the time I understood it wasn't going to be alright, I had nothing left. It was the only thing I could do, not because I hope for some fantasy where our family is made whole again, but because I just don't like leaving things undone once I've started."

"What does that make me?" Arthur begged. "I know how much I alienate everybody. You don't know how much I hate knowing I'm so difficult, knowing exactly what I'm doing that drives everybody crazy. You don't know how much I hate not knowing how to fix it; that it's just one more thing I can't change, no matter how much I don't want to be me."

He swallowed thickly, feeling pressure build behind his eyes. Arthur spun on his heel and retreated to his room as fast as he could. Shutting the door behind him, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and willed his eyes to remain dry. He strained his hearing, not knowing what to feel when the house remained silent. Even though he was alone, he regained some of his dignity through sheer determination. 

As much as his knees felt like they would give out any second, Arthur forced himself to remain standing; to take time to dress down before crawling into bed. He was exhausted, but he wasn't tired. Curling up in his bed, under the covers and in the dark, was the closest thing he had to crawling into a dark hole and dying. Shame, embarrassment, despair, and longing clashed painfully in his chest. It was difficult to breathe steadily. 

So caught up in his emotional turmoil, he failed to hear the bedroom door open. It wasn’t until he felt something drop into the space next to him that Arthur realized he wasn’t alone. Resigned that he couldn’t possibly embarrass himself further, Arthur remained hidden in his sheet burrow. 

“You make it very difficult to remain upset with you, Darling,” Eames mused quietly. “And to be honest, I wasn’t even particularly mad at you, even if it came off that way. You’re not the only one who hates being helpless to do anything.”

Despite Arthur’s mortification at his outburst, his curiosity got the better of him. 

“What are you helpless at?” He asked from under the covers. 

“I don’t know how to make things better for you,” Eames replied. “You’re coming apart, and I’ve seen it happening for a while now, and I feel like I can’t do anything about it.”

It was embarrassing to hear. Arthur had never been fond of openly discussing sentimentality and certainly not any type of sentimentality with Eames. However, he felt something give, just a little, and he felt it safe to peek out from where he was hiding.

Eames was lounging on his back, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, if not a little sadly. Arthur wasn’t sure what to do with such open emotion. It made him self-conscious, but also curious.

“Eames, why have you stuck around all this time?” Arthur asked. “It’s not like you’re going to get anything out of it?” 

“My god, for such a bright boy, you do ask the dumbest questions,” he answered with a sigh. “Isn’t in the name of friendship enough for you?”

“I don’t think I’m a very good friend.” Arthur stated. 

“That’s not how,” Eames began, but cut himself off with a long-suffering sigh. “Let me put it this way. When the Eames before me was killed by those money-seeking twats, I was total wreck, yeah? I lost the one person who had raised me, loved me, and taught me how to survive, and I couldn’t even get myself out of bed.”

He paused a moment, taking a deep breath that sounded just a touch too shaky, and then suddenly chuckled. 

“I don’t even remember how long I just drifted. But then, there you were, still worrying about Cobb, kicking my arse out of bed,” Eames recalled. “Turned out, while I was drifting along, you had tracked down each and every one of her killers, those directly and indirectly involved, and had a brilliant plan to completely and utterly destroy their very existence…to which we executed your plan and completely and utterly destroyed their very existence.”

Arthur remembered that time, and while he can’t see he was proud of the things he did to those people, he couldn’t bring himself to regret taking that action. He also couldn’t find the point Eames was trying to make. 

“Yes, Arthur, I do have a point. And yes, you did say that aloud.” Eames said with a small grin. He continued to stare at the ceiling, not saying anything until he shifted his weight and was now on his side staring directly at Arthur. “The point, then, is this. You wouldn’t have gained anything from it, and if anything, it took away from your own time and concerns. So, why did you do it?”

“Because you’re absolutely shit at the whole revenge-vindication thing,” Arthur immediately replied. He stumbled over his next words. “And because…because I wanted to…I wanted to make it better because I hated seeing you like that. And you needed somebody to keep you moving forward…because you really are shit at that when you get overwhelmed.”

Eames laughed, and Arthur felt some of the tension leaving his body. However, he was still embarrassed at having revealed those things, and he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with him. 

“I can’t really disagree with you on that,” he admitted. “But it brings me to my point. You were willing to do that for me. Why is it so hard to believe I would do the same for you?”

Now Arthur wanted to retreat under the covers again. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes building up again and the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. His attempts to cover it up were in vain as Eames wouldn’t let him hide. 

“See, this is where you need a hug,” Eames stated.

“I don’t need a hug,” Arthur choked out, trying to wriggle away from Eames with as much dignity as he could muster. “’No’ means ‘no’, dammit!”

“Unless it means ‘yes,’” Eames observed. He finally succeeded in grabbing Arthur. “Which, in this case, means ‘yes.’”

It was one of the most awkward hugs Arthur had ever experienced. It was less a hug, and more of Eames practically rolling on top of Arthur in an attempt to get his arms around the covers Arthur had himself wrapped in. There was nothing comfortable about it, no matter how much Arthur fidgeted and worse yet, Arthur felt tears running freely down his face. He always hated how crying felt like he was giving in to some sort of weakness, but now that he started, he couldn’t stop himself. He blamed Eames for doing this to him, and in retribution, he didn’t care about the tears and snot he was undoubtedly staining Eames’ shirt with. 

“Is my breakdown as glorious as you thought it would be?” Arthur finally managed to ask, his face still buried in Eames’ shirt. 

“I was kind of hoping more for wailing and gnashing of teeth, and dramatic falling into my embrace where all is made better,” Eames explained. “And a little less, me hugging a blanket mound that’s producing an interestingly disgusting texture on my shirt and sassing me.”

“What kind of world do you live in?” Arthur wondered with a soft sniffle. 

“One where you consistently ruin my dreams of re-living a midday soap opera,” Eames answered. “Which reminds me. Next time we have one of these heart to hearts, let’s do it in Spanish.”

Arthur laughed, and just for good measure, he blew his nose on Eames’ shirt. 

When Arthur woke up, he felt disoriented, stuffy, and overly warm. His muddled brain began to function gradually, ultimately reaching the conclusion that he fell asleep sometime after his break down. Eames was still awkwardly embracing, or more like crushing him, and snoring loud enough to make Arthur conclude what woke him up in the first place. He groaned as he tried to simultaneously untangle himself from the bedding and shove Eames off of him.

“Eames. Eames! Wake up.” Arthur practically shouted. 

He jerked awake, coughing as he choked on a parting snore. Finally, Arthur was able to get out from under the covers. The air was fresh and cool. He took a deep breath.

“It felt like an oven there,” Arthur complained. “How do you manage to put off that much heat? And I better not hear anything about how hot you are.”

Eames immediately shut his mouth with a pout. 

“You take away all my fun,” he accused. 

“I’m a point man.” Arthur shrugged. “It’s what I do best.”

Arthur ignored his grumblings as he checked his watch, only to frown when he realized he was looking at his pocket watch. It also explained why he had an unusual ache in his hip. 

“The chances of that watch having the correct time aren’t very high, you know.” Eames observed. 

“True,” Arthur agreed. He studied the face a little bit longer before snapping it shut. Then he tossed it to Eames. “But it gets to be right two times every day.”

Holding the watch up, Eames inquired about it with an arched eyebrow. 

“I’m giving it to you,” Arthur explained slowly. “I don’t need it anymore. Do what you want with it.”

Eames smiled and dropped it into his own pocket. 

“So, shall we get cleaned up and go back to the others?” Eames suggested. He grunted when his neck popped from stretching. “They should be starting soon.”

“Yeah.” Arthur said. “You ready to change everything?”

Patting his pocket, Eames grinned. 

“Of course. Lead the way.”


	12. Chapter 11

Performing inception was the most well choreographed disaster Arthur had the joyous misfortune of witnessing. Never could he have imagined so many debacles being so fortuitous. Cobb had believed everything, his mind dragging them deeper until they reached the core of his fixation. A part of Arthur envied Ariadne for being the one Cobb had revealed his secrets to, but by in large, he couldn’t blame her. She shared the same tenacity as Cobb, and that made her push and prod him where Arthur wouldn’t. 

When they had woken up in the plane, Arthur had been concerned when Saito and Cobb remained sleeping. Ariadne had explained what happened in the final level, how she met Mal in limbo, and rescued Fischer. There were several key details she had left out, but Arthur hadn’t pressed her for them, nor did he question Fischer who had been lost in his own thoughts. While he had assured them he was fine, and he had every intention of breaking up his father’s fake empire, he had remained taciturn. There were several world class father issues involved in inception, and Arthur understood the need for time to think. 

Eames had told them not to worry, that both Cobb and Saito would work out whatever secrets and issues they needed to. And sure enough, Cobb and Saito opened their eyes, groggy and disoriented. They had shared a knowing look, resulting in Saito putting in the call that would send Cobb home. Even though Arthur knew he had to keep up the charade, he couldn’t help but smile just a little bit. There was nothing holding Cobb back now, no excuse for him to keep dreaming. 

But as successful as they had determined inception to be, it had not been until he had arrived home to his children that the real success was determined. Arthur and Ariadne had followed behind Cobb and Miles, neither one able to talk through their nerves.

When they had arrived at Cobb’s house, Eames had been waiting for them in the kitchen having dropped his forgery of Miles once Cobb had run outside to his children. He had offered them a small, reassuring smile before taking his leave. And that was how Arthur found himself sitting at the kitchen table watching Cobb play with Philippa and James in the yard. 

“Was I really that loud and uncoordinated?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, you were,” Ariadne said. “You really are an annoying little brother.”

“And you’re a really annoying big sister,” he shot back. 

She scowled and lightly smacked him on the head. 

“I’m a devoted and loving big sister,” she corrected. “And are you going to actually look like yourself for this?”

Arthur checked his reflection in the window. It took more effort than he cared to admit, but he blinked and was staring at his younger self. 

“This feels really unnatural,” Arthur said. 

“Does it feel that unnatural in reality too?” Ariadne, or rather, Philippa asked. 

He looked up at his sister, seeing someone who was both older and younger than himself. He really did need a break. 

“Not really…but I forget sometimes,” he replied. 

His gaze dropped to the table and the little top that had yet to cease spinning. It would wobble every so often, Arthur feeling his breath catch when it nearly stopped and Philippa sighing when it regained momentum. They spent an hour watching it fluctuate, tensing when it looked ready to fall. So long as it kept spinning, Cobb’s mind was acknowledging he was in a dream. All they needed to do was bring his attention to it. 

“What if this doesn’t work?” Philippa suddenly asked. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“Me too,” he agreed, looking up when he heard Cobb laughing at something. “Guess we shouldn’t put it off any longer. Let’s go.”

Standing up, Arthur held his hand out to his sister. 

“No matter what happens, we’ll figure something out,” he said. 

She took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. 

“You’re James, right?” She asked. 

For the first time in several years, Arthur realized that at this moment, he was James; a son who just wanted to say he had a father and believe it. As he watched Cobb play with his children, James was hit with an overwhelming sense of longing. He wanted his father to look at him. 

“Yeah. I’m James,” he finally replied. “Let’s get Dad back.”


	13. Epilogue

It wasn’t a bright, sunny day, or a particularly dark, gloomy day. Grey clouds spread across the sky, thin enough for sporadic rays of sunshine to burst through every so often. The temperature was moderate, almost cold enough to merit a jacket, but still too warm to make the effort to put one on. It was the kind of day that Arthur enjoyed spending indoors, not having to bother himself with trivial matters such as weather and proper outer apparel. 

He sat in his office, shuffling through papers and jotting down notes. Every so often he could hear Dom and Philippa get in an argument over some design detail, both far too skilled and opinionated at the same job to get along most of the time. Dom had been making an effort to be more involved in their lives, and that meant he wanted to share his vast architectural experience with his budding architect daughter. Unfortunately, his budding architect daughter was an already highly skilled architect who had a job offer waiting for her at the top architectural firm in the western United States. So, more often than not, they spent their time battling over the designs and layouts, and Arthur knew Philippa couldn’t be happier about it. 

As for Arthur, he was pleased to have Dom back, and he was damn proud of himself for making it happen. While Arthur might have hoped they could establish a familial relationship, he didn’t expect it, and he would have probably questioned all he knew of reality if it had happened. The best they had managed to achieve thus far was the same brotherly affection they had when Mal was still alive in the dream. 

He could tell Dom felt guilty about it every time he would see him and call him Arthur. In turn, Arthur was continually reassuring Dom he wasn’t upset with him for calling Arthur by the name he associated himself with anyways. Sometimes that would appease him, other times, he would get this sad sort of look about him that Arthur didn’t doubt meant he was blaming himself for something. Their relationship was proving to be difficult, but Arthur comforted himself with the fact that Dom really was trying. 

When he had told Eames he knew he would never have the kind of relationship he wanted to have with Dom, he also knew it as truth. But whereas before inception Arthur despaired over that loss, he was now at peace with it. He would be lying if he said he was happy with it, and it was impossible for him not to occasionally feel a twinge of disappointment, but at the core of the matter, Arthur was content. Everybody he cared about was still by his side. And if anything, it was becoming a bit too crowded in their house. 

Dom had resumed living in the master bedroom, Arthur never having left his old bedroom, and Eames continued to live in what used to be Philippa’s room. And even though they had their own spaces, there was just too much history between them to make it a very comfortable living arrangement. Just as Dom couldn’t quite get over seeing his son as Arthur, he had an even harder time reconciling Eames with the Eames he was familiar with in dreams. Granted, Eames hadn’t been making it easy; since to the untrained eye, he wasn’t all that different, especially when it came to Dom. Arthur supposed there might be some resentment on both sides, and it didn’t help that Eames was even less tolerant of being treated like a kid than Arthur. At least Arthur had ample experience with it, and thus had the patience to discretely tell Dom where to shove it when he was in “Father” mode. Eames was not discrete, and very loudly told Dom where he could shove it. Dinners tended to be loud and interesting. 

“Cobb and Philippa are at it again.”

Arthur hummed in agreement, not bothering to look up from his notes. He heard Eames drag the chair closer to Arthur’s desk and flop into it with a tired sigh. 

“They’re expressing their creative differences,” Arthur explained. “Or so Philippa tells me.”

“Oh, well then, creative differences it is,” Eames said sarcastically. “Is she going to be expressing her creative differences so much as Ariadne?” 

“Probably,” Arthur snorted. “You should have seen her on the last job when she threatened Harding. He had the audacity to question her credentials.”

Working on inception had greatly improved Philippa’s opinion about dream sharing, and with Dom back, she was even interested in working on some of Arthur’s less dangerous jobs. And it didn’t take long for the dream community to start hearing about Ariadne. It also didn’t hurt that she could only be contacted through Arthur. The exclusivity made her architectural skills all the more desirable. Arthur shook his head as he thought about every member of the household was now involved in dream share. 

“That’s my girl,” Eames crowed. “Though one must wonder what she’s like with Fischer. He seems a great pushover to me.”

“That’s probably why they get along so well,” Arthur supposed. “And did you hear? Fischer is restarting an entirely new business in the mass shared dream, just like his father wanted. It really is that strong of an idea.”

“I still can’t believe inception worked that well,” Eames admitted. He leaned forward to look at Arthur’s work. “And what do you have there? House listings?” 

Arthur nudged the folder towards him. 

“Yeah. I’m thinking this house is getting a little crowded,” Arthur said. Setting his pen down, he leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Besides, this isn’t the most convenient location for what I want to do next.”

“Oh?” Eames questioned. “Do tell. I’ve been curious as to what you would do now that all is well.”

“I’ve been talking to Dom about the years after he disappeared and before he fell into a dream coma all those months,” Arthur revealed. “Turns out, he was spending that time investigating the mass shared dream.”

Eames perked up considerably, and Arthur knew he had his attention. 

“Before they performed inception, Dom, Mal, and several others were trying to figure out how the mass dream worked. Somebody had to be the dreamer, but who could maintain that massive of a landscape?” He asked. “They began looking into those who had gotten themselves lost in the dream, and basically entering their dreams to see what they were like.”

“And? Don’t leave us hanging, what did they find?” Eames pressed when Arthur paused a moment to gather his thoughts. 

“Most were just people losing track of reality,” Arthur said, pausing long enough to gauge the almost disappointed expression on Eames’ face. “But there were a few who were very influential dreamers, most of them in our business.”

“What are you driving at? You mean to say people like Cobb?” Eames asked, though he wasn’t really asking. 

“No matter if you’re the dreamer, the subject, or a tourist, everything in the dream is influenced by all the minds sharing it,” Arthur continued. “One person is supporting the dream, providing the outline as it were, and everybody else fills in the details.”

“So you’re thinking the mass shared dreams is being dreamed by several individuals, and everybody who happens to join in adds the detail,” Eames concluded. He nodded his head several times. “That would explain why the mass shared dream feels so real. Every single detail from what we know in reality is making its way into the dream…I love conspiracy theories.”

Arthur laughed and motioned to the folder on the table. 

“I’ve been chasing down some leads, and all of them happen to be very far from Los Angeles,” he said. “So I thought it might be wise to make some realty investments. Plus I really don’t want to keep picking up after you and Dom. I’m this close to hiring a house cleaner.”

“I’m not that bad,” Eames defended half-heartedly. 

“Yes you are,” Arthur argued. “And I would loathe seeing what the house will look like if I leave you and Dom to run things.”

It was here that Arthur paused and struggled to maintain eye contact with Eames. He was embarrassed to ask, and he hoped that Eames would catch what he was implying. Just because they had an emotional breakthrough several months ago, didn’t mean Arthur wanted another one so soon, and he wasn’t certain another one wouldn’t happen if he asked directly. 

“I have absolutely no intention of staying here with Cobb, especially if you’re not here,” Eames answered nonchalantly. However, a small, knowing smile played at the edges of his mouth. “Besides, I’m thinking such a massive undertaking would be far more efficient with a partner.”

Arthur didn’t bother to control or hide his smile. 

“Well then, Mister Eames, how would you like to visit Siberia?”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the song, Heaven Forbid, by The Fray. I make no money off this and all opinions, views, expressions, etc. are respective of the characters and are not a reflection of the author's own. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.


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